


The Chowder House Rules

by goodnightfern



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Beach, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Awkward Conversations, Dick Jokes, Drug Use, Dubious Morality, Ex-Con Dean, Food Porn, M/M, Major Inanimate Character Death, Mental Health Issues, Past Alastair/Dean Winchester, Ruby/Sam/Lucifer, Unreliable Narrator, find the pun in the summary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-05-29 18:43:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6388822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodnightfern/pseuds/goodnightfern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fresh out of prison, Dean’s job prospects aren’t too bright. When Sam sets him up at some janky chowder house on the wharf, he’s just got to be grateful for the opportunity to work. The calamari and the onion rings have the same breading that comes out of a plastic bag, and the chefs are hopped up on Vicodin during service. Shit is always hitting the fan - when the ticket machine keeps spitting, when the drains are clogged and spewing scum all over the floor, when the vegetable purveyors rip them off again - but it’s still better than prison, right?</p><p>Once upon a time, Dean loved cooking. Once Castiel put passion into his food. They’re going to burn out before tourist season even starts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright I posted this once and deleted it and forgot but here she come.

_Have you ever been convicted of a felony?_

That's where they nab you. The pen freezes above the neat little boxes labelled yes and no. At the bottom of the application there's a line for a signature consenting to a background check. It's not like Dean can lie.

"Do they even check this shit?" Dean says to no one, because Ruby and Sam are at work and he's all alone, wearing boxers and no shirt and three beers deep.

He doesn't want to work at this place anyways. Franchises are always a shitshow, too focused on the corporate aspect to pay attention to the actual business. Before prison he got fired from a Subway for putting too many slices of cheese on a sandwich. It was for a regular customer who came in every fucking day on his lunch break and ordered the same toasted roast beef sandwich. Two extra slices of swiss cheese and Dean gets tossed out on his ass. Five months of missing space on his resume.

Balling up the application, he tosses it towards the recycling bin. It bounces off of the empty whiskey bottle sticking from the top and lands on the ground. The bottle reminds him, though, that he's gonna have to get more booze.

After four years of nothing but the occasional batch of pruno you'd think he'd be over it. Then again, it's not like he has a job or a future or even a regular sleeping schedule. Every time he goes to the grocery store, Sam's debit card in his back pocket, there's so many different brands of sliced meats and the liquor department is right there and really, food on the outside makes him sick to his stomach. When he's hungry there's fast food and the am/pm on the corner, where the burgers are sixty percent textured vegetable protein and corn syrup. Something his digestive system can actually handle. After three months he knows Sam and Ruby's schedule well enough to avoid their judgemental looks and Sam's desperate eyes when he's trying to eat some god damned chili cheese chips. He's working on the real food. He just isn't quite there yet.

Dean ends up at the am/pm with two cans of malt liquor, a hot dog, and a pack of chips. He drinks one can and eats the hot dog squatting in the alley behind the store. There's a dirty sleeping bag ten feet to the left with a pair of dirty feet sticking out from the bottom. A shattered needle by his own feet, dirty with brown sludge. People survive like this all over this town. Whenever Sam gets sick of his shit and tosses him out, Dean will be fine.

Except Sam doesn't know when to fucking give up. Sam doesn't realize what he's doing, how he's about to ruin his own job by vouching for Dean.

"You can't vouch for me to work in the kitchen, Sam," Dean mutters, flat on the couch. "You're a waiter."

"Head waiter," Sam says, raising a finger as if some bullshit title has anything to do with the eternal civil war between the back and the front of the house.

"Whatever, okay." The local news switches to national. Dean doesn't give two fucks about the election, but it's more effort to change the channel. "I'm just saying, I don't see how you putting in a good word for me is gonna help. Even if the chef wants to bang you."

"He doesn't wanna bang me," Sam mutters, struggling with his beer. With a glance he's handing it to Dean, who snaps the cap off with his teeth. "I'm just saying. I have clout. And Cas wants you in for a working interview on Wednesday."

"Cas? Thought you said his name was Nick."

"No, see, Cas is his brother. He's the one who's gonna be interviewing you. Nick won't meet you until Cas approves."

"This is weird," Dean says.

"You're going in anyways."

Not like Dean has much of a choice. Most kitchens honestly don't care if you've got a drug charge on you - hell, drug usage is pretty much a requirement of the job - but it's been a while since Dean's held a knife in his hands. Chuck's Chowder House is right on the wharf but at least it isn't tourist season yet, and he's going in on a Wednesday morning when everyone will still be in prep. Oh yeah, and at least he isn't on fucking parole and doesn't need a note to carry his damn tools.

After Sam goes to bed Dean's stuck curled on the hide-a-bed, staring at the knife bag hanging on the apartment doorknob.

Twenty six hours, fifteen cups of coffee, five Excedrins and two packs of cigarettes later, he's suited up and ready in front of a salt-sprayed facade. Seagulls are taking shits on the restaurant balcony. The seals are deep into their morning hymns. The oaken doors of the restaurant are peeling paint and firmly locked. He knocks three times.

Twenty minutes later, someone opens the door. He's nearly as tall as Dean, black apron covered with flecks of fish guts tied over a plain t-shirt. Thick tufts of dark hair stick out from underneath his bandana. He looks like he's seen some shit, and Dean is just the scrapings at the bottom of the bin.

"Hello, Dean. My name is Castiel. I'll be interviewing you today."

The door almost slams Dean in the face when he turns away. Dean takes a quick breath and follows him inside.

Castiel conducts him to a table at the rear wall of the dining room beneath a mounted swordfish. The swordfish gives an encouraging grin coated in shellac. Dean tries not to smile back.

The key is to not want the job. If he doesn't care, there's no reason to stress. He's going to get off of Sam's hide-a-bed somehow, but scoring a single interview isn't a sign of hope or anything. It's hard enough to maintain eye contact with people these days, and Castiel's eyes are the same blue as the rolling seas outside the window. Dean finds a comfortable space at the corner of the table to stare at and hopes he isn't being too awkward.

Castiel leaves him in silent hell for at least thirty seconds. Dean is counting. As he shifts and tries to find an acceptable place to put his eyes Cas sits like a stone. Something in him reminds Dean of the Russian mobsters he saw in lockup. The harsh edge of his jawline is covered in a healthy three-day stubble. A steel gaze measures Dean and finds him wanting. Dean clutches his knife bag like a dried newspaper shank.

"Relax," Castiel says, the word incongruous with his harsh tone. "You can cook, yes?"

"Yeah."

"You won't have to do much of it here yet," Cas says, and suddenly a grin twists his face. It doesn't meet his eyes, though. Dean knows about men like that, who only smile to show you their teeth. "Let's see. Community college drop-out, excon. Before the pen, you worked at... a Holiday Inn, a barbecue shack, whatever Kansas City means by New American fine dining, and a stadium concessions stand, yes?"

"Yeah."

"Word of advice? Leave those six months as a mechanic off your resume. That means jack to me."

"You really memorized my resume, huh?" Dean says like a fucking idiot, as if Castiel is someone he can get away with sassing.

Castiel raises an incredulous eyebrow and deigns not to comment. When he gets up from the table Dean thinks the interview is over, but Castiel beckons him with a finger. He follows him through the dining room, to a set of swinging doors. Castiel pauses before pushing them open. "You've got diversity. What was the prison kitchen like? No, don't tell me. I imagine it's even worse than the underfunded elementary school cafeteria kitchens. Here's where you'll be working now," he says, and opens the doors.

It's... not that bad.

Most of the plumbing is covered in duct tape. There's three deep fryers before the expediting station, only one greasy grill with a salamander above. Almost every inch of counter space is covered in food processors and blenders, cutting boards poised on the edge of sinks. Some kid is shoving potatoes through a dicer. He doesn't bother to look up at the newcomers to the kitchen. The air tastes like grease and sour milk and fish, and every single worktable has a black crust gathering around the ends of the legs.

Then Dean realizes Castiel said he'll be working here.

Well. It's a hell of a lot better than the prison kitchen.

"You can start tomorrow," Castiel says, and it isn't a question.

Before Dean can even nod, someone's shouting behind the restaurant bar. A blond man rears up from the counter with full shot glasses in his hands. Castiel blanches visibly.

"Hey, Cas." the stranger crows. "You hired him yet?"

"I believe so."

"Time for my interview." Setting down the glasses, the man vaults over the bar and then brings the glasses over to the table. One for Castiel, one for Dean, one for himself, the smell of cheap gin wafting up from each glass. "Drink up, Dylan."

"Dean," Castiel scowls.

"I don't give a damn about his name, brother. All I care about is how he fits in."

Brother. So this must be Nick. He's confident in the chair, arms sprawled over the table. Taking the shot without so much as a grimace, he stares at Dean. Dean knows a challenge when he sees one. He drains the two-point-five ounces of gin in a single beat, slams the glass back on the table, and gives Nick the eye contact he's asking for.

"Another one?"

"Nick-"

"Shut up, Cas. This is my interview."

"I'm well familiar with your interviews," Cas grumbles, but he's holding out his glass for more.

The rest of the interview consists of two more shots of gin and a lot of questions. No, Dean never fucked with the white supremacist gangs in prison. Yes, he was shanked once, and got a nasty infection that took a week in the hospital. No, he wasn't convicted of anything violent. Just drugs.

"Who cares about that," Nick scoffs. "The war on drugs is a detriment to the nation. You need some more gin, there."

Dean buses back to Sam's apartment shaking. Ruby is cooking something too hot, grease sizzling up from the pan. On the couch Sam is buried in his textbooks.

"You got the job," Sam says without looking up.

"I guess?"

"Did Nick break out the gin?"

"I fucking hate gin," Dean sighs. There's beer and soda in the fridge. He needs a beer, now, after so much shitty liquor. Ruby smirks and smacks his shoulder with a spatula covered in bits of scrambled eggs.

"Sounds like you hit the jackpot, tiger," she says, and goes back to the stove.

"Whassat supposed to mean?" Dean frowns at the toss of her long hair still crimped from her ponytail.

"I dunno. Ask Sam. It's his job."

"Ruby, shut up! Don't scare him off before he's even started!"

"You're the one who comes home every damn day with yet another story about how fucked up your bosses are," Ruby whips the spatula and spills even more egg bits on the floor.

"Can you shut up? I'm trying to study this damn menu," Dean interrupts, but Ruby powers on.

So everyone's mad and addicted to drugs and alcohol and they yell all the time. It sounds exactly like any other restaurant kitchen Dean's ever worked in. She's a pharmacist's assistant, she has no idea what it's like it in the trenches.

"And I fill all of their prescriptions," she winks. "Oh, remind me. I gotta get you some Vicodin. Keep it in your pocket at all times. Sometimes it's the only way to tame the beasts."

"Wow," Dean says, and drains his beer.

"Ruby..." Sam starts.

"Oh."

She gives Dean some extra cheese on his eggs but the food runs dry down his throat. Neither of them will mention it.

Four fucking years.

That's not something Dean can just ignore. He can't forget it.

But now he's outside. He's moving on, it's all in the past, fresh start, blah fucking blah. He's got a job, hasn't he? That's a real fresh start right there. That's lucky. Truth be told, Dean is one fortunate son of a bitch. He leaves Ruby's shitty scrambled eggs behind to go smoke on the cramped apartment balcony until he's convinced himself that, yep, everything's turning up Dean Winchester right now.

* * *

There's a lot of fried stuff on the menu. Two varieties of clam chowder, but Castiel tells him the only difference between classic and manhattan is tabasco and tomato juice. The sandwiches and burgers are all simple things. Dean is starting in the prep kitchen, so he doesn't have to worry about the menu too much. His day starts at six in the morning, and after four Excedrins and a pint of coffee he's starting to feel like he can do this.

Nick shows him around, all the while balancing a giant silver thermos on top of a case of oysters. The prep kitchen is more of a shed behind the main building of the restaurant, tucked in the courtyard where the dumpsters are kept. There's a thin sheet of propped-up drywall near the walk-in hiding a toilet with pipes that lead to nowhere and a collection of paint cans.

"You're good," Nick says when Dean manages to bump the wall aside while wrangling a forty-pound bag of onions. "Naomi's been coming here for years, and she hasn't found the secret shitter yet."

"Naomi?"

"Health inspector. Don't worry, you'll know when she shows up. She hits front-of-house first. I think Sam has some kind of system set up with the cameras, but there's always a good thirty second warning 'fore the breach."

Dean has to chop ten pounds of onions into small dice and run another thirty on the slicer, thick enough for onion rings. He's not too proud to wear goggles. The breading for the onion rings is the same for the calamari and the mozzarella sticks and all he has to do is get matching eight-quarts of thick onion, liquid eggs, and breading set up in the walk-in. All of it will come with the same aioli, but squeezing the aioli into convenient squeezebottles is the last thing on the prep list.

There's a giant plastic tub of some reeking white slime in the walk-in. As he's backing away, someone bumps into Dean from behind and the quick laugh makes him jump at least two feet in the air.

"Scared of my sourdough starter?" the woman says. She sounds like a god damn Fargo character. "You're new, aint'cha? Oh, I know! You're Sam's brother!"

"That's me," Dean gulps.

"You wanna move a bit? I've got to get my butter out before anything else."

Her name is Donna Hanscum and she's the pastry chef. The French baguettes come in pre-formed nuggets of dough, but the rye bread, the sourdough, and the desserts are all made in house. That's more than Dean was expecting. Between him, Donna, and Nick's oyster shucking the kitchen falls into a comfortable rhythm.

Right up until the door slams open and Castiel strides in carrying a white styrofoam case that smells strongly of the sea. It's eight in the morning, and Dean knows that the restaurant is open till midnight, which means - after factoring in clean-up, winding down, and meeting with seafood vendors - Castiel is running on four hours of sleep at best. The lines under his eyes are deep and dark, but the guy isn't even drinking coffee. He sets up shop near the back prep sink, tightens his bandana, and starts cleaning squid.

Nick coughs pointedly.

"Oh," Castiel says, and then gives Dean a sudden glare.

They don't look too much alike, but with those heavy frowns beneath their matching black bandannas Dean sees the family resemblance. Something passes between them - a nod, a jerk of the head - and then they're both hurrying into the walk-in.

Five minutes later they come back out, sniffing, and return to their work with a renewed vigour.

Drug users always think they're so sneaky. Once again Dean thanks the Devil or the stars or whatever that he isn't on parole. Maybe the law has changed for stuff like Narcotics Anonymous by now, but the knife starts to shake in his hands, the air in the kitchen suddenly pressing in too close and hot, and already he can smell the stale rank of his old cell. Donna doesn't even seem to notice, working away with a cheery little hum. Does she know? What if she doesn't? What if she finds out, freaks out, calls the cops, and then they'll get him again, fucking pigs clamping metal around his wrists and -

She's giving Nick a sly little wink, rubbing her nose.

It's okay.

Deep breaths, Winchester. The goggles are sliding down his sweaty face. He's got ten pounds of onions left to slice. There's enough stuff on his prep list to distract him from the fact that he almost had another god damn nervous breakdown his first day on the job. It's good to fall into the old rhythm, to move until his legs are liquid and his hands move without thinking. Washing hands, changing gloves, slicing and dicing. Just before service starts he's stacking towels at every station, filling mis cups with tongs and whisks and spatulas and water. The waitstaff shows up, Sam in his blue suit and red tie flashing a thumbs-up. Behind the expediting station Dean is only supposed to observe. As if he can't even be trusted to touch the handle of a deep-fryer basket. When the door opens the entire atmosphere freezes, and then the first ticket prints out and the wheels start turning.

Castiel doesn't yell, which is a bit of a surprise. Some chefs are volcanoes but Castiel is a glacier, slow and steady but unstoppable. Nick is lightning on the grill. Hannah is a god damn salad machine, working like she's on a factory line. Everyone pitches in on the deep-fryer baskets, but Dean can't help but notice that there's no distinction between fryers. Potatoes, squid, mushrooms, and chicken tenders all intermingle. Kevin, the kid, drops his towel on the ground and picks it right back up without washing his hands.

It still isn't nearly as gross as the prison kitchens.

This is Dean's ticket off his brother's couch. All he has to do is bite his lip.

* * *

Dean wakes up on his second day feeling marginally well-rested. It's still dark in the apartment, but he hasn't slept for much more than five hours in years. He's got four hours until he's supposed to show up at Chuck's. Coffee first, then smoke, shower, cold Pop-tart, and then he's got nothing to do but stare at the menu for the upteenth time.

Appetizers. Lots of fried stuff, your basic steamed clams and oysters three different ways. Pasta - mostly seafood. A fairly basic assortment of sandwiches - toasted and cheesy and full of deep-fried flakes of whitefish. An assortment of fish on the entrees varying from pecan-crusted mahi mahi to simple fish and chips, one steak. The ubiquitous chowder, two styles, six different ways of serving. The salads are a half-baked dream of California cuisine, beets with goat cheese, bacon with tomato, and alfalfa sprouts with kale and quinoa in a sunshine lemon dressing.

Oh yeah, and the burgers and chili cheese with fries or macaroni. Dean wanted to vomit when he saw the chili being squeezed out from a plastic sack, but the only soup warmers were devoted to chowder. The burgers come preformed and frozen and the buns are thawed out and stored in the walk-in.

Meanwhile, the crusted sardines come fresh-caught every morning with homemade remoulade and the sourdough bread bowl is made in-house. There's no single underlying rhyme or reason to the menu. Just a bunch of shit thrown at the wall to see what sticks.

So yeah, the menu bothers him, but it's better than shit on a shingle. The health code violations are to be expected, and he still hasn't seen anyone pick a steak up off the floor and serve it. He didn't truly forget about the rampant drug usage that runs ever-present in kitchen culture. After all, that's how he used to supplement his income. Mix a little baking powder in the coke and triple the money. Take a few sniffs when the pressure's on. Linger around the bar and try to quell the adrenalin rush with more drugs, more drinking.

Drive home and get in one little fender bender.

Get caught with a sack of rock.

The Impala could be anywhere by now. He'd hoped Sam or someone would've taken it out of impound but the cost was just too high. By now she could be on some used car lot, auctioned off, crashed, torn down for parts.

He'd faked his way through all of the damn rehab classes that told him to eliminate self-blame. The key to taking charge of your life is to find a reason to trust yourself. Believe in yourself. Self-love and all that progressive crap. He'd worked hard in the kitchens, stayed away from all the dirty needles, passed every piss test and wept right in front of a counselor. Truly a reformed man.

All of it was a load of bullshit.

One stupid mistake- but it wasn't just that. It was years of mania, bull-headed exuberance because he was barely an adult and Dad was dead before he'd had a chance to speak to him again after their last drunken fight. Four lost years of his life didn't matter. He'd deserved it. Shit, he should've been in there for ten. He should be on parole, meeting with his babysitter three times a week and carrying a note just to hold a knife in his hands.

But the Impala wasn't just his. She was Sam's home, too.

Sam doesn't even seem to care that much. As if he'd forgotten all those nights in the back seat he'd spent curled in Dean's arms, tears streaking down his chubby cheeks. When Sam was just a baby, when John drank until he forgot he even had sons, when Dean was stretched paper-thin trying to hold his family together. Mom might have been dead, but the Impala was real and warm, her leather and steel embrace the only comfort Dean needed.

Now she's dead and her blood is on Dean's hands.

Sam might be over it. Sam is also well-adjusted and has a girlfriend and his own place and has never been to prison.

If Dean ever stops hating himself for it, he'll have nothing left.

Voices rise from the bedroom. An alarm clock bleeps and shuts off. Sam's already heading straight to the coffeepot. Which means it's seven thirty, which means Dean has half an hour to walk two miles and keep drinking coffee until it triggers his acid reflux.

No matter how weird and gross this job may be, he can't wait for another day. Dean finds himself whistling down the streets, smiling at the early risers jogging and walking their dogs. As long as the Chowder House keeps him out of the hell of his own head, he's good.

* * *

Last night service was slow enough that they sent Dean home before the sun had yet to set across the sea. Today is Wednesday, though, and there's some kind of community concert event happening at the end of the wharf. Dean's prep list is nearly twice as long as it was yesterday, but he's grateful to have to work so fast he won't have time to think. Donna has him scooping out sourdough boules for bread bowls.

"Should we save this for croutons or something?" he asks, holding up a scoop of the inner bread.

"Just save 'em for the gulls," she says. "You can take some home if you like. We just use the little croutons in the plastic baggies."

"Really?" Blinking, Dean looks at the mess of bread in his hands and at the row of boules he still has left to scoop out.

"Oh, we used to make our own croutons. But. Y'know. Customers. They want oyster crackers instead of croutons, or they want the croutons on the side, or they're gluten free, yadda yadda yadda." She waves a dismissive, flour-coated hand. "But the croutons and the oyster crackers from Sysco are real cheap, and then we can just keep them in baskets on the table. Easy peasy."

"Easy peasy," Dean repeats, popping a piece of bread fluff in his mouth. It's amazing, soft and fluffy with just the right amount of sour. If he takes some home, he can sprinkle some olive oil and dried herbs and bake them up in Sam's oven. Then... put them on top of the iceberg mix Ruby always buys and cover them in ranch dressing or whatever. Maybe he'll just take some home to stuff in his mouth for a quick breakfast.

Castiel looks even more exhausted than he did yesterday, the bags under his eyes dark and severe. The dolly holding several cases of seafood makes a shaky path through the kitchen. He doesn't even bother with a good morning, just loads up the walk-in and then grabs a thin filleting knife. Soon scales ping off the sides of the back sink in a glimmering drumbeat. Donna gives Dean some kind of knowing look and then switches from the pop country on the radio to some soothing classical.

Two hours in the peace is violated with a kick to the door and a smarmy British accent that instantly sets Dean on edge. "Oh, Cassie, darling, this won't do at all."

"You're late," Castiel (Cassie?) calls, still elbow-deep in fish scales.

"How many times have I told you not to let your cock interfere with the hiring process?"

Dean looks up from his onions at a short man dressed in layers of black, cradling a small styrofoam case under his arm. He's got the nerve to wrinkle his nose at Dean.

"Oh, you mean that," Castiel says, turning with a whole red snapper and a slim knife still in his hands. "That would be Dean Winchester."

"No relation to Sam Winchester, I hope," the stranger snips.

"Yeah, that's my brother." Dean draws himself up and juts his lip. He might look ridiculous in his onion goggles, but he's not gonna let some posh fuck diss Sam.

The man gives him a pitying look but carries on as if Dean doesn't even exist. "Not that I would mind watching you bang him in the toilet, but I've got all the cock you want right here." With that he drops the case right on Dean's station, shoving his cutting board a few inches askew.

That's all Dean needs.

The twelve-inch knife feels right in his hands when he hefts it up, tip pointed right at the small case. "You wanna get this outta my station?"

Before Dean can tell this guy exactly where he can shove his stupid accent Castiel is there, still cradling a red snapper in one arm.

"Crowley. Please. It's his second day."

"Feisty one you've got here."

"He's got the right to be," Castiel shrugs.

Suddenly ashamed, Dean doesn't know where to look. But Castiel crinkles the corners of his eyes at him, nods at the onions. Shit. Here he is about to throw away his one shot over a single douchebag. It's not like he isn't familiar with this kind of behavior. Whether you're inside or outside, everyone likes to test the newbie. He might've just failed. With a shake of his head, Crowley raises the lid of his case and the tension dissipates immediately when Castiel gasps and leans over the box.

"They're beautiful," he says reverently.

"They're quite erotic," Crowley agrees.

Castiel reaches in with the hand that isn't holding the snapper - it was on it just a second ago, Dean saw, and he should've washed his hands or something but he's got to learn to keep his fucking mouth shut - and pulls up the biggest penis Dean's ever seen. Just with a clamshell instead of a ballsack.

Dean forgets all about his onions.

The douchebag winks. Castiel is too busy hefting the cock in his hands to notice Dean's dropped jaw. "Straight from the mud of Puget Sound," Crowley says. "I've got twenty of the nasty things for you. You're welcome, darling."

Setting the clamcock back down, Castiel ducks away when Crowley tries to peck him on the cheek.

"What the..." Dean starts, but Castiel just gives him a wink.

"You'll find out."

Laughter sounds from the back of the kitchen. Donna's nearly weeping over her dough hook.

* * *

The energy when Nick expedites is... different, to say the least.

"Single BLT, dying in the window!"

A salad topped with bacon still sit stubbornly in the window. He wipes a few plates, drops sauce on three plates of fish, reads off five more tickets, and tries again. "One BLT, still waiting! Hannah, are you sure I told you to fire this? Dylan, where's my fucking clean towels?"

"You told me to fire that ten minutes ago. Do I need to start recording you? Towels are on your left - your other left," she snaps before Dean can even make a move. As if he's got time to worry about towels when he's got six bus tubs to be transported to the dishwasher.

"I know my god damn left from my right," Nick snarls, reaching wildly to the right. "BLT, SINGLE, READY TO GO!" Beyond the window suit-clad waiters are milling around, but they seem to be actively avoiding the salad. "ONE-TOP, BLT, FUCKING DEAD. I'm dead! Bury me in your ass, Sam!" There's no way the customers at the bar can't hear him.

"You seem well alive to me," Crowley quips from among his saucepans.

"I don't need your lip, limey! Where the hell is Sam?"

"Probably stretching his arse for you."

"Oh believe me, he's got it stretched," Nick sneers. "Shouldn't you be rubbing one out in the alfredo sauce? Pickup for table two! Hannah, what's up with this god damned salad?"

Dropping mixed greens in a long line of bowls, Hannah rolls her eyes. "You're the one who told me to fire it, Chef."

"Don't you Chef me! Crowley, I want you to jack off in her god damned ranch tonight. Hey. Welcome back. How was your trip? I knew I was missing some uppity asshole. Kevin, fire six calamari! No, I don't give a shit about your trip, we were a man down for three days! Jesus shitting fuck, where's my SAM!"

Finally Sam appears. "That's table six."

"I fucking know that!"

Without a word Sam reaches through the window, drops two white pills in Nick's hand. "Yeah. Table six. Also known as your mother, who wants the salad out with the fish, and a not a moment before."

"Shit," Nick spits, "You fucking shit, you're gonna get this plate out of my window before I shove it up your ass."

"Your mother. Also known as Naomi?"

"You mean my mother is here and you didn't warn me?' Nick's voice is a dangerous grind now.

"I sent you three texts this morning and told you as soon as soon as we saw her walking down the wharf. She isn't here for an inspection, dumbass."

"You -"

"It's her birthday," Cas intones from the grill. "I told you, Sam told you, and the reminders Hannah and I set on your phone all told you. She does this every year."

"God damn it. It's Mom's birthday. How could I forget? I'll go tell her happy birthday and tell her if she sticks her head behind those doors I'll put my knife to her throat."

"Excuse me? Take your fucking pills." With a whisk of his hand Sam's got the salad down a level and to the side, near the ice machine where it'll stay cool. "Just take off the bacon slices and toss them under the salamander once you've got that fish."

Nick looks dumbstruck for a moment, then another ticket prints out and he pops the pills down dry. "Right, right! Fire three mahi-mahi, two red chowders, and two clam pastas!"

Castiel is attacking steaks with a spatula when Dean brings him a clean stack of plates. His pupils are dilated. Apparently Cas and his brother like to switch positions a lot when one of them is too fucked up to read fast enough. Dean still isn't sure who is sous and who is head, but then again no one seems to give a shit about positions. One is fire and one is ice, he gets it. Hannah's currently scooping soup and draining pasta and Kevin is doing salads because they're 'easy as shit'. Crowley is steady on the sauces, and everyone's dipping into the deep-fryers that seem to form the main hub of the kitchen. They still don't trust Dean anywhere on the line, which he is more than okay with after six hours in prep. But there's plates, and Gadreel isn't here to wash dishes because his grandmother died for the fifth time in a year.

When the fish is ready Nick just up and leaves the expediting station to carry it out with the salad. Everyone, but Castiel just drops their shit and goes up to the window so Dean figures he can sneak a peek. Plates high in the air, Nick dodges waiters across the room before stopping at the only table with a single diner. A woman in a grey suit, hair tied back in a neat bun. She doesn't look happy to see Nick and he doesn't seem happy to see her. There's a moment of words too soft to hear, and then Sam is grabbing Nick discreetly by the arm and escorting him back.

"You're not going to go wish our mother a happy birthday, Castiel?" Nick asks upon re-entering the kitchen.

"I never do."

"Hannah?"

"She never does."

"Wait, you guys are all related?" Dean asks, dumbfounded.

Hannah and Castiel give him identical withering looks. The stern blue eyes, the dark hair, the strong jawlines - shit, they could be twins.

"We _are_ twins," Hannah says as if reading his mind. Dean wants to slap himself, but just as quickly they're all back to ignoring him.

"I'm expediting now. You're too worked up," Castiel announces.

"You're stoned."

"I seem to be, yes. And if I have to listen to you yelling anymore, I'll have to get drunk as well. Tell me, brother, then where would we be?"

"I'm the one who needs a drink," Nick mutters, but he obediently moves to the grill. Dean ducks back into the dishpit, grateful for the switch. Sure, Nick's pretty typical of most chefs, but he'd take Castiel's controlled grace any day over the screaming chaos. Even if he is reeking of marijuana, one wouldn't be able to tell. The high seems to give him even more focus.

The machine grinds back to life. Castiel is a little slow reading tickets, but at least everyone can understand him. Nick is grabbing hot plates straight from under the salamander without so much as a towel. The kitchen falls into a peaceful lull after a few hours, as diners switch between dinner and dessert and order more drinks from the bar. Dean can't help but notice that he's scraping too much pasta into the garbage - poor cost control.

Suddenly something burps.

It's a very wet burp.

Dean looks at the drain beneath his spraying sink and sees a horrifying bubble. Bits of pasta, leftover rice, bread buns, crackers, all swimming in a creamy pink soup.

Everyone's looking at him.

"Well?" Castiel asks. "Bend over."

Dean gulps. His arm is poised and trembling, but he has to do it. When he plunges his arm in up to the elbow, Hannah gives him an encouraging smile and that's the final straw. He locks his jaw, grabs a handful of something gummy, and yanks what looks like a dead rat up and out of the floor drain.

Nick actually claps, and soon everyone's doing it. Fighting a blush, Dean drops the clog in the garbage and sprays his arm down. "What're you assholes looking at? Get back to work."

It's a solid hit. For the rest of service, Nick starts calling him by his name.

Most of the servers save Sam leave as soon as they're done cleaning up the dining area, but the kitchen crew just pours through the doors and lands at the bar. Tonight Dean's invited to the bar post-service. This is yet another essential part of crew-bonding. If he's here, he's one of them. There's Charlie, the red-haired hostess and book-keeper, and Jo who works the bar during service, and one or two of the servers Sam presides over as well. Everyone's throwing back beer and talking too fast for him to understand save for Castiel behind the bar, pouring drinks and taking a sip of everything he pours. Dean sticks close to the end until he's got a few tequilas down. Until Hannah is smiling and Sam is trying to keep Nick from shouting and Kevin is trying to hit on Jo and Crowley's telling Charlie about the gay bars he saw up in Seattle. Maybe it's alright if he smiles too, shifts a bit further down the counter.

Then Castiel breaks out the mysterious case of dickfish.

Donna chokes on her beer.

Hannah is disturbingly entranced.

"Gorgeous," Nick grins.

"It's a geoduck," Cas explains. He reaches in, bare-handed, and holds it up like an offering. "They'll be our special on Friday." His eyes are shining when he looks at Crowley, who smiles indulgently in return. "I think... I think we should all try one right now."

"Please, no," Hannah cuts in. "We just finished cleaning up in there."

"Fine. Tomorrow, then. I'll prepare family meal."

"I'm ready to eat a dick," Kevin smirks.

"I'm well aware of what they resemble, Kevin. Don't look at them like that, Dean."

"I'm not-" Dean starts, but Cas cuts him off with a glare, settling the geoduck back on top of the ice.

"Yes, you are. You need another drink."

Well, Dean can't argue with that. Cas fills his tequila too full and has to lean over and take a sip like a dog from a bowl. The spectacle of the dick animals is finally removed safely to the walk-in, but Cas is still giving Dean a funny look.

"So....geodicks?"

"Ducks. Geoducks. I've never had opportunity to try them, but I've heard enough. Fortunately Crowley knows someone up in Washington state. You're going to love them."

"You haven't even tried them yet."

"I love all molluscs. That's why I work at a seafood restaurant."

"Yeah...." Dean trails off awkwardly, unsure of what to do with Castiel's befuddled expression. "So, uh, your mom's the health inspector?" Shit, too personal. Or is it? They were just yelling about it all over the kitchen.

Castiel might be smiling now, so Dean hasn't fucked up so badly. "She's a fool. Thinks she's keeping us in line, but as Nick and I are unfortunately familiar with her habits, we always know when she's coming. It's the one time when she actually pretends to care about her kids. But she hasn't asked me if I'm married yet this month, so don't worry. You'll have plenty of advance warning."

That is so not why Dean was asking, but he just grins tightly and nods.

"I figured it out," Cas says conspiratorially."All of the handwash station signs? We just print them on magnets." .

"That's-"

"I mean, come on. I've been working in kitchens since... well, before I was legally able to, actually. I don't need instructions on how to wash hands."

Dean's too new to start bad-mouthing anyone, but he's already seen Kevin barely pass his hands beneath cold water. At least the kid doesn't work with raw chicken.

"Would you care for some cocaine?" Cas asks suddenly.

Dean looks up.

"Kidding, kidding. Aren't you on parole or something?"

"Actually, no. I did my full time."

"I don't have any anyways. Cocaine is garbage," he says firmly. "Come smoke a joint with me, now." He nods down at Sam and Nick, who immediately untangle themselves from the chaos at the bar and pass through the kitchen. Hannah rolls her eyes after them. In the kitchen Donna is plating up some leftovers from dessert, apple pie and chocolate cake to serve to the crew.

"Y'all wanna grab something 'fore you head out?" she asks, bless her heart.

Dean's the only one to grab a slice of pie, but he's too exhausted to feel shame.

They end up in the courtyard, the soft salt breeze from the sea intermingling with the stench of the dumpsters and the tang of cigarettes. Cas lights the joint, passes it to his brother, who passes it to Sam, who passes it to Dean, who passes it back to Cas without taking a hit.

"No one's gonna call the cops, Dylan," Nick snorts.

"Dude, he just got out," Sam says.

"What happened to Dean? And dude, I'm tryna eat this pie here."

Cas just accepts the joint and takes care not to blow it on Dean's pie.

"So. How're you liking it here, Dean?" Sam asks, swiftly changing the subject.

Nick smiles, rocking back and forth on his heels. "He doesn't want to talk shit in front of his bosses."

"Are we his bosses?" Cas frowns. "Or is it the owners?"

"We hired him. We can fire him."

"True."

"He's good, though. He's Sam's brother. If I fire him, I'll fuck up my chances with Sam."

"Dude, I am right here," Dean says.

"Yeah, you've already fucked up," Sam says, looping his arm in Nick's and pulling him closer. "You don't stand a chance with me."

There's always a lot of sexual humor going around kitchens. No one seems to be bothered, and it's none of Dean's business anyways. At least Dean is still too new to be pulled into the flirty shit, but he knows it's coming. It's part of the initiation into the crew. He'll be ready for it.

It's not like anyone will be creeping up on him in the showers with a ready erection. No one's going to jack off on his cot or crack soap jokes. He's seen plenty of women get just as crass, if not crasser, than the men, and while Donna's sort of a rebel Hannah seems to keep to herself. Kevin seems sort of awkward, Crowley seems too wrapped up in flirting with Castiel, Nick has Sam to fuck with, and... well, he knows Sam and Ruby are pretty free-loving, so there might actually be something there. Castiel seems like too much of an ice queen, but. If he gave Dean a wink, Dean would wink right back.

Donna, Hannah, Kevin, Crowley, Cas, Nick. The elusive Gadreel. Dean's worked in kitchens with a staff of twenty and with a staff of three. It's always chaotic, but they seem to have the right balance. Dean could belong here.

Still, when Sam declares he's heading home after the joint he's more than ready to leave. Between the comedown from the adrenalin rush Dean's been riding all day and the alcohol it's pleasant enough despite his aching feet. They let themselves in quietly. Dean wants to shower more than anything but he also doesn't want to wake Ruby. He falls asleep in his clothes on the couch without even bothering to pull out the bed.

It's the best sleep he's had in four years.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Awkward conversations. Drug usage. Unsafe working environments. It goes, it goes, it goes.

First Castiel slices the trunk of the geoduck thinly with cucumber, drizzling with lemon, soy sauce, and scallions in a sort of sashimi salad. Next he briefly sears chunks of the inner meat in browned butter before plucking them out with chopsticks. Just before the butter gets too dark he hits the pan with cheap chardonnay, leeks, oyster mushrooms, gives it a few brief turns with a spatula, then removes it from the heat and tosses the seared geoduck back in the mix.

Elsewhere Nick's juicing limes and lemons for ceviche while Hannah grinds a paste of garlic and fresh herbs, but Dean's just watching the peace in Castiel's eyes, the precise, measured haste of his movements. Unlike the rest of his staff, Castiel works clean. Even as he goes he's tightening lids and returning them to their proper shelves. Wiping spats of butter from the stove with a sanitized towel.

"Plates, Dean." Takes good peripheral vision to see Dean staring. Before Dean's even aware of his feet moving he's presenting Castiel with a clean stack of plates. "Good. Now call the children."

Flipping open the doors, Dean roars out in the courtyard towards the service kitchen.

"AY! Come and get this dick!" Shit. The whole neighborhood heard that one. Castiel seemed to be getting sick of the dick jokes but when he glances over his shoulder, Cas is just smirking and shaking his head.

The geoduck is still briny and fresh even after a three hour flight and sitting in the walk-in overnight. It's like a sea cucumber. Not that Dean has ever had an actual sea cucumber, but that's kind of what it's like. A cucumber that tastes like the ocean that feels like a clam. He says as much with his mouth still full, huddled over Cas's plates with the rest of the crew.

"It reminds me of abalone," Cas says, chewing slowly. There's a dreamy look in his eyes. Nick seems to catch his mood, nodding thoughtfully.

"We should go diving for abalone sometime," Nick says.

"I would like to eat abalone again."

"It's rather crispy, isn't it?"

"Almost meaty. This is like -"

"Those clams we had in Mexico?"

"I was going to say the sea cucumber we had at that Chinese place in San Diego."

"What if we did a chowder?"

"Something lighter. I wouldn't want to overpower them."

"More potatoes and wine, less flour and cream."

"Since when do you want less cream?"

"Since the chowder we serve here has the texture of glue."

"Right, while you guys brainstorm I'm gonna try a geoduck fritter," Hannah says. "Do you think that ceviche is ready yet?"

In the end they decide on a lightly battered fritter and the saute with oyster mushrooms. For once Hannah makes her own dressing for the geoduck fritters, something light inspired by Nick's ceviche. It takes them forever to write the specials on the chalkboard, the three siblings jostling each other and making quiet inside jokes. Kevin, Donna, and Crowley are bemused but indulgent, working around the bubble their bosses create. Besides the bar chalkboard they advertise the geoduck specials on the sidewalk clapboard. At the last minute Sam draws up a quick flyer on cardstock to slip inside menus.

Throughout the night they sell three plates of fritters and two orders of the saute.

Nick pops four Vicodin. Cas actually leaves his station for a cigarette. Hannah just shakes her head and takes over expediting. From the fryers Dean tries to help her manage salads, but she moves too fast for him. Sam brings Nick a mug of something he chugs in one go. When Cas comes back his eyes are a little red. Without a word he moves to the salad station and lets Hannah continue expediting.

"You can all take home a geoduck if you like," Cas announces at towards the end of the night. "They're just going to die if they stay another night in the walk-in. Better not to waste."

"You could make a pretty good chowder."

"Huh?" Cas's eyes are pins sticking Dean to the wall.

"Chowder. You were... talking about a chowder earlier? I thought. That sounded real tasty."

"I saw a recipe for geoduck pie once," Cas says. "We've got seven of these mud-dildos left. I'll make us something for dinner."

"Mud dildos?" Dean mouths, but Cas is already running to the prep kitchen.

Hannah flashes Dean an inexplicable thumbs-up.

After clean-up the atmosphere at the bar is subdued. Behind the window Dean can see Cas hauling a stockpot out of some corner, chopping onions. Sam and Nick are bending their heads over martinis, everyone else seems determined to get wasted and no one notices when Dean slips back into the kitchen with two rum and cokes.

Cas is humming to himself, holding a bottle of wine high above the pot. In go potatoes, leeks, celery. Dean just sets the glass on the table behind him next to the four-quart full of seafood stock.

When Cas turns around he nearly drops the wooden spoon in his hand, but regains composure admirably quick. "Smells good," Dean offers.

"We haven't run specials here in years," Cas says. "That was a mistake on my part."

"I didn't even know what geoduck was till you showed me."

"They're expensive." Draining his glass, Cas sets it back down a little too hard and returns to the pot. "Fetch me some bay leaves, please."

It doesn't take long to finish the soup. At the last minute Cas adds the last of the geoduck and heavy cream, finishing with a squeeze of lemon. They present bowls out to the staff still clinging to the bar and leave the dirty dishes in a sink full of soapy water since they're just going to be right back here in eight hours. The dark restaurant falls silent but for the sound of slurping. Cas collapses on a bar stool, closes his eyes, and simply sips the delicate broth until his bowl is empty. When he opens his eyes again, Dean's got another drink ready for him. Dean's playing it cool, standing to the side and chatting with Charlie in between chunks of tender geoduck flesh, but in the corner of his eye he sees Cas look at him.

"Hey." Sam's muttering in his ear. "So, Ruby's off at Meg's for tonight. And, uh, I was wondering.... it's been a rough day, you know?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Nick's coming over tonight."

"So you guys are really...?"

Sam sighs, sheepishly running a hand through his hair. "I know, I know. You're not supposed to shit where you eat, right?"

There's something steady about Nick when Sam is around. Sam has that effect on people. With those earnest eyes and towering body Sam belongs in the cathedral forests of giant redwoods north of this town.

Sam and Nick are already drifting away when Hannah tells Dean that they've got a spare couch. Already he's heard Sam and Ruby have sex too many times in their thin-walled apartment.

The siblings all live together less than a mile from the wharf. Sandwiched between an auto yard and a laundromat, the little sun-bleached house could be built of driftwood and seaweed, all white and covered in vines. Hannah and Castiel seem to make an effort to include Dean in their murmured conversations about the weather, the number of bedrooms, the invasive ice plant crusting the front yard. Dean falls asleep beneath a worn quilt that smells like mothballs and salt.

Of course he's awake before the sun has reached the windows. He can make coffee, at least. Dressing in the same clothes he wore last night, he cringes when the floor creaks.

The house is simply decorated, not too messy considering the residents rarely are home. Spare furniture, all of it aging. Books are piled everywhere, subjects ranging from nihilist philosophy to gardening to entomology to crocheting. A significant lack of cookbooks, but there's quite a few books on marine biology. Faded Jacques Cousteau photos are pinned to the walls. The coffeemaker is massive, white plastic base aged to dingy yellow, and filled to the brim.

Dean isn't alone.

Castiel is just a dark shape at the folding card table. A thin line of smoke wafts from his fingers, cigarette just a spot of red in the darkness.

"You don't sleep much, do you?"

Like Cas is one to talk. "Not really. Just need my four hours and I'm good to go."

"I'm about to head down to the docks, if you'd like to do something productive."

There's no need to sound so fucking judgemental. Dean doesn't have the energy to bristle, though, and Cas isn't looking particularly haughty. Just sleepy. "Long as I can get on some of that coffee," he says, and Castiel gets him a thermos.

Cas drives his rusting red pick-up straight up to the edge of the commercial docks on the north side of town. It's five-thirty in the morning and the dawn has yet to peek over the mountains to the east. Down at the fishing wharfs the workday has already begun. Sipping coffee, Dean watches Cas weigh fish in his hands, barter with fishers in yellow plastic overalls. An oyster farmer shucks two right there on the dock, knife splitting easily through the shell, and hands them a bracing taste of the sea. Over the edge of the shell Dean glances at Cas caught up in his own ecstasy. It's better than coffee.

The coastal road runs past dunes and cypress trees as they make their way south. As they near downtown they drive past rocky cliffs, view of the ocean shrouded in morning fog. Half a mile before the wharf Cas pulls off at a small beach.

Small waves curl over the sand, whispering over piles of kelp. From here they can see below the restaurant, starfish clinging to pilings. Cas rolls down the windows and simply breathes.

"I grew up in this town," he says, voice so soft Dean must not be meant to hear. "Every morning I would stand on the shore here to greet the crabs."

As morning tints the tidepools pink Dean can see a dark-haired child running through the sand, sticking his finger in the anemones to feel the sticky pull. Back in Kansas, before Sam was born, there's dim half-memories of golden cornfields and lightning bugs. In this quiet moment he can nearly taste the dusty air of his childhood.

Shit, but he hasn't thought of those days in a long time.

Castiel looks a bit older than Dean's twenty-six. It shouldn't be so easy to see him a child, giving play the same quiet enthusiasm he showed the geoduck, never minding the odd wave splashing him in the face or the sand beneath his nails.

"Well, we've got work to do," Cas says suddenly, and throws the truck into gear. Whatever quiet moods he may have, Cas turns to perfect steel the moment they pull up to the restaurant, and the day slips into the chaos of work. Hannah shows up around ten with a thermos of coffee, and Donna brings in a box of bagels with enough sides of cream cheese to go around the kitchen. When Cas shoves past them and heads to the service kitchen the women exchange looks.

"Don't even start, hun," Donna says. "You know, if it wasn't for you I woulda blown this popsicle stand months ago. Less personality, more pastry, you know what I mean?"

"We're supposed to be twins," Hannah moans around a bite of bagel. "Understand each other. You know he didn't sleep at all last night? He gets all maudlin and goes to sit on the roof and shit. He thinks I can't hear him opening his window but I do."

"I thought the geoduckies were tasty. But..."

"And now Nick's off trying to find an artichoke farmer that will put up with his bullshit, and I'm like, hey, when have we ever had anything with artichokes on the menu? Okay, sure, maybe it'll be a hit, but after yesterday you really want to give a brand new ingredient a go? Do you really want to make Castiel cry? And he's all like, well, Sam said it might be good, and-"

"Artichokes are local," Dean volunteers. "Customers are familiar with them."

From the way Donna and Hannah nearly shit themselves, Dean can tell he probably wasn't supposed to hear any of that.

"You weren't supposed to hear any of that," Hannah says. Fucking mind-readers here.

"I wasn't actually thinking of leaving," Donna says with a nervous giggle. "Who needs dessert specials and pastries when you can just make bread all day?"

"Castiel hasn't cried since Naomi took our puppy to the pound. I was only exaggerating."

"Mum's the word, ladies," Dean tries to grin reassuringly, gives up, and remembers there's gotta be something in the walk-in he has to grab.

A switch has been flipped in whatever computer keeps Castiel running. If Dean has any questions they're directed to Nick,. It's not like Dean said much to him this morning, and now he wonders if that was the wrong thing to do. Was the guy really up all night? Dean hadn't even noticed. He knows Castiel usually makes the morning purchases alone. He wonders if the beach is his morning ritual. A private moment of peace before the hell of the day begins. Not entirely private - not if he could share it with Dean.

Better not to overthink it. All Dean wants is keep his boss happy and keep his job. That's all there is to it.

Nick expedites that day. Loud and vulgar as ever, but today he's completely in control. After service, when Castiel heads out to chainsmoke by the dumpsters, Dean leaves him be. He's witnessed something he never had the right to see. Besides, Gadreel had yet another excuse, so he's got a pile of dishes to wash. It's a wonder that guy isn't fired yet.

The artichokes do turn out to be a good idea. Marinated and tossed on salads or roasted along with the halibut, they're a hit. Considering that they're right in artichoke country and the Gilroy Artichoke Festival is coming up, they should've been serving artichokes long ago. If Cas has trouble pronouncing the tickets, that's nobody's business but his own. If he never speaks to the artichoke suppliers, that's just because Nick is the one who made the connection.

Blue patches of mold sprout on the leftover geoduck chowder in the walk-in. It's a shame to throw it away.

 

* * *

 

Two months in and Dean is swinging. He's working six days a week, twelve hours a day. Since they've hired more dishwashers he's allowed to do salads, work the deep-fryer, drain pasta and toss it in sauce during service. Chuck's Chowder House is closed Mondays so Sunday nights are the big party night when he does shots with the crew till four in the morning and doesn't make it to bed till the sun's rising. Donna and Kevin are fucking animals, Castiel and Crowley get creepy and snarky, Hannah's outright rude when she's drunk, and Nick just seems unstable when Sam isn't around, so all in all it's always a wild time. The front-of house crew is all right. Charlie is pretty rad, and Jo likes to pretend she's their babysitter, but Sam's pretty much the only one who's successfully infiltrated back-of-house.

For seventy-two hours a week, Dean doesn't ever have to feel like himself. His calves burn daily. New scars form on his hands, scalds from hot water and oil. There's a spot in his shoulder that always twinges and every morning he hitches his fingers up on a doorjamb, braces his toes, and swings his body forward till he feels the pop. Matter over mind.

When Castiel shows him how to clean squid it's like he's just been promoted. Castiel's massive hands are almost entirely scar tissue, tightening when he yanks out pen after pen, but the squid are slippery in Dean's hands. One flops on the floor and Castiel picks it up with two fingers, rinses it off in the back sink, and then brings it back to Dean.

"Cas...."

"It's going to be deep-fried. The heat of cooking will kill any bacteria."

"Dude. No. That's... that's disgusting, that's a violation of health code, I'm not gonna do that."

Narrowing his eyes, Cas gets right up in Dean's face, holding the squid between them. Dean stands his ground and waits. The squint teeters, then turns into a smile. Whatever Castiel does instead of smiling, at least.

"You're not like the others, are you, Dean?" Cas says, voice warm and cryptic. He drops the squid in the trash without breaking eye contact, then breaks the moment with a quick nod and spins away. "Finish that case, then report back to me."

It's like he's passed some sort of test. Cas actually starts asking for his opinion on things. Sometimes he even crinkles the corner of his eyes, and Dean works up the nerve to try to be fucking funny again. One night Dean catches Castiel giving Kevin a lecture about fallen towels. Another day Dean gets left in charge of family meal. He cubes and toasts the leftover bread from the sourdough bowls. A case of cucumbers are getting slimy, some of the tomatoes are getting moldy, and there's a few soft red onions in the case, so he throws a panzella together. Some of the sardines are getting old so he tosses them in breadcrumbs and a deep-fryer. Pretty fancy for a family meal, but when everyone's chewing and grinning he can't shake the warm feeling of being a provider.

After that Cas assigns Dean make to make family meal every day. He slices mold off of vegetables and finds whatever meat is on it's last day, grabs anything leftover from last night, and whips up whatever he wants.

"If only you could cook this good back at the house," Sam quips, but he starts showing up early in time to try whatever Dean's made for the day.

Really, work is going great. But, hey. Seventy two hours a week. When Ruby gives Dean a bottle of Vicodin, it's only natural that he pops one or two during a shift. Excedrin only goes so far.

Some days even call for three or four pills.

Nick is annoyed because the vegetable purveyors are trying to rip them off again, sending cases of still-green tomatoes when he needs them ripe, god dammit. Kevin swears he saw a rat in the dry storage. Somehow Crowley manages to get three different servers to quit their job on the same day. Plates are moving slower, but Sam is supposed to be in charge of front-of-the-house hires and school is kicking his ass.

It's a four-pill month until Hannah convinces Castiel to allow Charlie to hire some servers.

They set out traps for the rats and stop finding poop pellets under the stoves. Nick curses out three different delivery drivers, two companies, and even a farmer but it's worth it to get such perfect tomatoes, pure red heat on the vine, and it isn't even summer yet. One day Castiel tells Dean to mix separate aiolis for each appetizer. Something lemony for the calamari, something peppery for the onion rings. Customers don't notice, but the staff starts snacking on the leftovers from the deep-fryer more.

When Naomi comes, Castiel runs around sticking up handwashing signs and setting out buckets of sanitizer on every bare surface before hiding out behind the dumpsters. Kevin washes his hands until they get pruny, Donna sticks labels on every god damned thing in every reach-in and walk-in, Crowley cleans out the deep fryers, and Hannah takes off her apron before her cigarette break.

Dean's waltzing through his workday, but Nick is all tense edges that explode in fury that night. Everyone gives up and lets him expedite to work off some of the stress, and for once Crowley doesn't sass.

They're reloading the service kitchen's walk-in at the end of the night when Dean notices the heavy cream is suspiciously warm. A check at the thermometer on the door confirms his suspicions.

Sure they've been in and out of there all day, but seventy-five degrees is a little high.

Naomi came in around ten and it was working fine, so at least they've got a time-frame to work with. There's still a little bit of ice left under the fish, so they shouldn't have to throw out too much stuff. It's completely inexcusable for Nick to shatter two glasses and call his sister a fucking dipshit.

"You and your fucking salads, you're always in and out of that door," he hisses. "You didn't notice something was wrong?"

"Excuse me? You're the one who kept dipping back there for steaks all through service!"

Castiel is gripping his phone hard enough to shatter the screen. "No one's answering at the service company."

"Of course they aren't, it's past midnight!" Nick shouts. "You think the owners are gonna pay to fix that? You know how much it costs to fix those motors? We're talking five grand here, at best! We're gonna have to -"

"You are not taking it out of anyone's paychecks," Hannah says firmly.

"I'll fix it tomorrow," Castiel swears. "We don't even know what's wrong yet. It could be-"

"This is the third fucking time this thing has taken a shit, Cas. You know it's dead."

Sam and Kevin are already gone, and Crowley goes for a cigarette he never returns from. Moving everything from there into the prep walk-in and every available refrigeration unit takes another three hours but finally around four or five in the morning they all just sink onto booths in the dining room for a few hours of shuteye. The next day Jo shouts at them for putting clams and sour cream in her beer fridge and Castiel finds out that the manufacturer won't send someone out for another three days.

Of course, it's busy as shit that night.

Dean's on salads. All of his reach-ins are stuffed, and if he needs to refresh anything on the line he inevitably needs to shove entire cases aside. Donna's got her dessert plates in there too, so of course he ends up spilling ranch dressing all over a tray of tiramisu.

"DYLAN! Where's my shitting BLTS?" Nick screams.

"Right here, Chef," Dean says desperately, but they aren't, because he's still got the six-top of beet salads and he can't find the lemon dressing for the three kales he was supposed to have ready ten minutes ago. His heart is pounding, he's moving too fast, and Nick is going to fucking murder him. He's fine, though, he can get back on top of it, all he needs to do is throw down some more plates and -

There's white shards of ceramic all over the floor. Droplets of something red. Dean grasps, but he can't feel his hand.

Nick is screaming words he can't hear. A towel hits him in the face.

That's right. He just sliced his palm open.

Hands are grabbing him, holding up what used to be his own hand, but it never was split like that.

"No! You get the fuck back to your station! He's gonna get his shit back together or he's out of here!"

"Nick. He's bleeding," Cas says. That's Castiel. Castiel's hands on his wrist, wrapping his hand in a towel. Dragging him to a nearby sink, swaddling him in paper towels and plastic wrap. "Go. Sweep that up. I'll sanitize your cutting board and throw out those salads you bled all over." Through the blizzard of white noise Dean finds his voice, lets it guide him. 

A few pills are shoved down his throat, and then he's floating again, dancing over the salad station and too out of it to care about the evil eye Nick keeps throwing his way. Then it's eleven-thirty and there's a line of red running down his arm. The yellow dishwashing glove his hand was shoved in is brimming with red, in fact.

"Is that blood?" There's no way that's Dean's voice.

Cas is grabbing him again. Stuff happens. The air in the courtyard tastes nice.

"Where you - why we in the car? Where's my... my tongs, dude, I have to sweep and -"

"Shut the fuck up, Dean."

Is that Castiel? Why are they in the truck? Dean's got to get back to work, but Cas is grabbing him again and now the lights are way, way too bright.

 

* * *

 

Something is pulling at the raw skin of his palm. Dean tilts his head up just enough to see the thick lines of stitches, Cas's red-rimmed eyes on him.

Shouldn't Castiel be at work?

"It's Monday, Dean."

"Oh. Am I... am I high?"

Hell has frozen over. Cas is smiling. "I believe they've given you painkillers, yes. You've been talking a lot."

"I just woke up," Dean mutters.

"Two hours ago," Ruby says. She's still in her pajamas, flannel pants and a hoodie. By her side Sam's in his white undershirt and suit pants, the boots that are definitely not in the approved Chuck's Chowder House dress code but he wears anyways.

"You sliced your shit up good, man," Sam says.

There's some strange pressure on Dean's arm. He looks at the scarred lines of Cas's hand and decides he must still be in shock. Cas's white tee is splattered in blood, bandanna stripped off so that his dark hair sticks up in swoops and cowlicks. "Is that my blood on you?"

"Yes. Dean, I.... there's no excuse. If I had known how badly you were cut, I wouldn't have put you back on the line like that."

"Oh, come on," Dean grunts. He knows the rules. During service, you just throw on a paper towel and call it a day.

"I also want to apologize on behalf of my brother. Er... unless you didn't hear all of what he was saying, in which case I ought to pretend that never happened and let Nick apologize to you for himself. You two do have some things in common, you know."

"I'm just gonna..." Ruby says, and slips out of the room.

"You might as well tell him," Sam shrugs.

"Tell me what?"

Cas lets go of Dean's arm and steeples his fingers together. "This was a long time ago. It's a long story."

"You don't need to tell him the whole story," Sam says.

"Hannah and I were fifteen or so? It was '94. Nick was seventeen. I remember that. Our father had just left, things were a bit... wild, so we all got fake I.D.s and went to a bar together."

Dean has absolutely no idea where this is going. The gravel in Cas's voice has softened to sand. He just nods.

"Nick was just trying to protect them," Sam cuts in. "Things got out of hand."

"It was a bad situation, yes. Hannah and I looked quite a bit alike in those days. Enough for any drunk pervert to think we were about to fulfill his wildest twin fantasies. Did you know that's an entire genre of pornography?"

"Jesus, Cas. So, basically, it was just a lot of bad decisions and one asshole-"

"I always thought it was odd that Hannah and I got away with nothing more than a month in a group home."

"I don't know what the fuck you guys are talking about," Dean mumbles.

With a deep sigh, Cas presses his hands to his forehead. "We shouldn't even be talking about this. All I meant to say is, well, Nick's done quite a bit of time."

"They tried him as an adult," Sam says with no small amount of bitterness. "He didn't even - well, he may or may not have had a knife on him, right? So he gets assault with a deadly weapon. Ten years. He was older than you when he got out."

"He isn't even listening."

"Dean? Hey, Dean?"

God damn. Four years without his big brother and Sam's off in polyamorous relationships with crazy ex-cons. Then again, Dean really isn't in a position to judge. "Just get me out of this fucking hospital, guys," he sighs, and then Sam and Cas are scrambling, trying to get him out before they get asked any more questions about the shady worker's comp policies at the Chowder House. In the back of Ruby's Jeep Cas pulls a cup of pudding stolen from a hospital cart and offers it to Dean.

"You got a spoon?"

Cas just folds his lips together. The foil lid makes a pretty decent scoop. "Awesome, man," Dean sighs around a scoop of vanilla. "You're friggin' awesome."

 

* * *

 

Tuesday morning there's a slice of cold apple pie sitting on Dean's usual station. Donna just shrugs. "Nick told me to give it to you."

"What the fuck," Dean says.

Nick doesn't call him Dylan all day. In fact, he lets Kevin work the grill when Cas expedites and reduces himself to pasta. It's an apology that doesn't even need to be made. Dean's the fuckup here. He sweats over the line, making salads too quickly, but it's not like anyone's going to care if their fucking bacon is cold. Even better, he's got a codeine prescription on top of the Vicodin. It's a great week, and he gets a refill within four days.

The last thing he needs is Sam trying to stage some kind of fucking intervention. "Dude," is all Sam says, and whatever. Six stitches spanning his hand, and he can't even have a fucking beer on his break. Crowley drinks whiskey on his breaks and he's fine, so what the fuck gives? Even Nick is giving him a weird look, as if he's the one who's got his shit together. They don't even know. On top of the pain pills, the beer gives him a sense of power. He's killing it. When Nick dips off to Sam's apartment for the night, he follows Castiel and Hannah home. Hannah's being all weird and quiet but Castiel is suddenly chatty. Keeps asking Dean about work.

"I don't wanna talk about work," Dean tells him. "I mean. I don't know. All we fucking do is work. Is that all there is to us anymore?"

"Do you have something you'd like to talk about?"

They're drifting off the sidewalk. Fog is moving in from the bay, cooling the sweat on their faces, misting the top of Dean's head until he can barely feel it. There's a few nice cars in the auto lot next to Castiel's house. Maybe, if Dean gets another car, he'll get a blue Volvo. Or a pickup. Cas has a pickup. As long as it doesn't look like the Impala. "I guess.... I owe you some thanks."

"What for?"

"The hospital?"

"Oh."

"I mean, you're my boss, you shouldn't have to - "

"I am responsible for the well-being of employees. Also, we already have relations outside of work."

"....huh?"

"Sam and Nick have been together for three years now. I do consider your brother family. Which makes you family as well."

"That's pretty swell," Dean says. Somehow his arm went around Castiel's shoulder and the guy doesn't even seem to mind. "Sam's like... he's a fucking tree, man."

"Exactly." Nodding emphatically, Castiel might even be leaning back into Dean's arm. It'd be cool if Cas put his arm around Dean too. Scaling fish all fucking day has given him pretty strong arms. "We are but the web of life that lives in the, uh, the branches. Those giant redwoods tie the entire ecosystem together. You know how those roots hold the soil in place and prevent landslides?"

"Landslides'll really bring ya down."

"That's one of my favorite songs."

"You talking funny. You been dippin' into my prescriptions, boss?"

"None but my own."

The couch is lumpy and smells like weed. Sleeping in Nick's bed would be kind of weird. So Dean can just crash in Cas's room. He's got a big bed. It's no big deal, but Dean starts to feel a little jumpy outside of the bedroom door.

Castiel's bedroom really isn't much. There's a mattress on the floor, a closet full of clothes, and a few spare pairs of kitchen Crocs. A stack of books and water bottles by the mattress, a bong on the windowsill. The only decoration is a large print of the lone cypress on 17 Mile Drive, the one that ends up in all the calendars of the Monterey Bay area. In the dark it takes Dean a moment to recognize because isn't the famous Ansel Adam's photo. The angle is all weird, pointing straight up at the tree as if the photographer was clambering around on the rocks underneath. Pretty unsafe, but that might be the why the photo is so blurry.

"What are you looking at? The light on your phone is too bright. Turn that off."

"Sorry."

"That's a bad photo. But I liked it at the time. I almost died getting it."

"You took that?"

"I used to do that sort of thing. I was a lot younger. Lie down, Dean."

They fall onto bed together, silently looking up at the watermarks on the ceiling. From his soft breathing Dean can tell Cas is still awake, but if they both pretend to fall asleep at the same time there's nothing weird about it all.

"So," they say simultaneously.

"I don't know really know what's up here, but is this - are you -?"

"Dean, as you can probably tell, I'm not exactly, you know -"

"Fucking hell." A small laugh escapes.

"Would it be all right if I told you I'd like to kiss you?"

"You're terrible at this," Dean tells him.

"I'm not... quite... okay, as they say."

"Hey, man. You're not exactly dealing with Mister Functional here."

"Is that a yes?"

"Fucking A. Yes."

"Okay." Rolling over, Cas curves away from Dean. "I'll keep that in mind. Get to sleep. You have work in seven hours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up sam srsly


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickie. Like what these characters failed to have in this bit ayy.
> 
> The posting of this has been a lil fucked up, but I did indeed add another 3k or so to the first chapter. Just in case you're confused about anything.

Swirling her wineglass, Ruby smushes a cheek in her free hand. "Chill down, Sam. They're just buying a fridge. By the way, shouldn't one of you be cooking?"

"I don't cook outside of the Chowder Hole," Nick says. "Sam is supposed to be cooking."

Sweeping back a fall of hair, Sam can't help but laugh at them. "What are you guys making? Do either of you even know?" It's one of their rare Monday afternoons as a triad. Not that Ruby and Nick have much of a romantic thing going on, but they all get along together. Even in bed. Normally the sight of the two people he loves under one roof is all Sam needs to relax and get away from fucking work and school, but all he can think about is that fact that his brother and his kind-of-boss are on their first date. Okay, so maybe they're just wandering the restaurant supply stores in search of a used cooler. Same fucking thing. That whole show with Balthazar started much the same way, and everyone remembers how that turned out.

The pan is on too high, but Ruby's got her back turned. "Just some kind of pasta sauce? I threw some ground beef and frozen spinach in a jar of Prego. That's not cooking." 

"You have water started?" Nick asks.

"Start water - the fuck does that mean?"

"Get it boiling. For the pasta."

"So we're doing pasta now?"

"You made pasta sauce."

"Yeah, okay, but I don't know how to make pasta." Flipping back dark hair, Ruby gives Nick her best puppy eyes. Except Ruby is completely incapable of puppy dog eyes or garnering sympathy in any way. Somehow, it always works on Nick. 

"Fine. I'll do the pasta. Ruby, open another bottle of wine. And Sam, keep talking. I actually do share your concerns."

"And that's why I've got the wine."

"I'm just saying," Sam says. "Remember how fast he fired Balthazar?"

"Oh yeah," Nick snorts. "Who doesn't remember that?"

"Oh my god. You guys were like, twenty minutes late on every single dish -"

"And then the fucking fire department comes and Hannah's on damage control and I'm just like, what is happening? I've had my head in the fucking salamander all day and they hadn't even had sex yet, fuck-"

"I haaate hearing about your job." Groaning, Ruby struggles with the wine opener. It's all crooked in there. "Is buying a cooler a euphemism for something? I honestly think you guys are just overreacting."

"You love the Chowder Hole stories. You want to get a fucking reality show crew up in there," Nick crows. "What did you do to that poor wine?"

"I dunno. Sam's the wine expert," Ruby shrugs. She slides the bottle down the table way too fast towards Sam.

"Jesus, you're gonna break it." Catching the bottle before it falls, Sam sticks out his tongue and starts fiddling with the bottle. "I'm not over-reacting. Look, we all know Cas has been a little bit..."

"Trying to put geoducks on the menu, hiring green-eyed boy-toys-" Nick starts counting off on his fingers.

"He's using coke again, isn't he?"

"Shhh," Nick says. "Don't let Hannah find out."

"Shit. Does she not know?"

"Of course she does. But what the hell is she gonna do? You think she hasn't been trying to make Cas get help for decades now?" 

"Ohhh." Eyes widening, Ruby sits up straighter. She so does want to make a reality show of the Chowder House. "And Dean's got his issues with cocaine-"

"I mean, I know it isn't our place to interfere," Sam says. "And I love Cas. I do. But I know he's unstable - even more than you, Nick - and once he gets going with the drugs, he just goes for it. When was the last time any of us saw him sober? Four months? Five? Meanwhile Dean's been all depressed and freaking out and he won't even talk to me, and now he's getting into the prescription drugs again. Oh, but I'm not supposed to say anything! I'm just supposed to watch him as he gets into the same shit that got him locked up in the first place!"

"Not to mention the age difference between them," Nick says, nodding sagely like the fucking hermit on the mountaintop. Sam cringes, and Ruby tosses back her head and laughs. Please. As if Nick isn't almost two decades older than Sam, but that's one of those things he tries not to think about, thanks. At least Nick is steady with his madness, but Cas is a pendulum. Whatever Dean's doing right now, he's keeping that shit on lockdown. Acting like Sam can't see through the cracks. 

Even after four years, Sam knows his brother hasn't changed. He wouldn't have set Dean up at the Chowder House if he thought it was a bad idea. What else, let him sit around maudlin and drunk and useless getting rejection after rejection? Now all he can do is look back and wonder what the fuck he was thinking. For Dean, work is an escape, a band-aid to slap over the gaping wounds that live inside. For Cas, work is all he is, something he lives and breathes. Sure, if could be a good thing if they get together. Could be.

The water's boiling. Sam leaves Ruby and Nick to puzzle out the wine bottle. He dumps pasta in and watches the water bubble, inhales steam and listens to Nick and Ruby babble until he isn't thinking about his big brother anymore. 

There's no way Sam can predict what's bubbling between Dean and Cas. At least he's got Nick with him, if a genuine intervention needs to happen.

They've just finished dinner and are settling down in front of the Food Network so Nick can yell at the TV while Ruby bitches and Sam can sit down and just fucking chill when Nick's phone starts blowing up. Sixteen photos of three different coolers, all within the $900-1500 range, all used and a bit beaten up in Sam's eyes. Then again, he isn't the professional. Nick has to go and help them get the damn thing hauled. Sneaking up behind Sam's bowed head, Ruby gives him a light shoulder massage, a peck on the cheek. At least they tried. Compared to their previous attempts at triad days, four hours is pretty damn good.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> updated tags! give em a read.
> 
> (the author does not condone the use of cocaine)

Noon is pretty early to wake up on a Monday, but Dean's up and ready to roll within ten minutes. The red pickup is waiting outside, Cas leaning over the steering wheel. Dean slides in, drops two cups of coffee in the cupholder, and they're soon rattling down dune roads towards the south end of town. Cas's palms slap the steering wheel to match the percussion of the Fleetwood Mac tape. Dean throws his elbow up on the windowsill like he's trying to get a trucker's tan in the brilliant sun.

Before they hit the warehouse district Cas pulls off at a little Mexican place, all fluorescent pink stucco overlaid with murals. "I don't know about you, but I haven't had breakfast yet," he says, tilting up his sunglasses to slide eyes across the cab at Dean. "They serve giant breakfast burritos all day."

"Well shit, sign me up."

Dean's knees bump old pieces of gum on the underside of the table, but all is forgiven once he sees the size of the burrito. Creamy eggs and cheese, shredded beef, sauteed onions and peppers, fresh tomatoes. Pure California style, no beans or rice inside. While he's still contemplating how best to attack the beast, Cas loads up at the salsa bar. "All of their salsas are made here," he says when Dean raises an eyebrow at the impressive array of plastic cups. As a true blue Midwestern, Dean still isn't that into spicy, but he tastes every single one. Even if it's just a drop on the tip of his finger. Cas's eyes are soft as he watches Dean's face twist under the influence of capsaicin.

"I'm not quite a Californian, yet," Dean shrugs. 

"I know. Your first job here was in 2010."

"After all this time, you still got my resume in your head." What a nerd. Dean shakes his head, stuffs another bite in his mouth. "Jesus, are these tortillas homemade too?" He's talking with his mouth full, but he can't bring himself to care.

"Mmhmm. Sh'wunna-" Cas stops, swallows. "This is one of the greatest restaurants in the greater Bay area. Great margaritas, too." 

Six greasy tables and a back-lit menu above the register. In the kitchen, Dean can see an elderly woman humming along to the radio, serene as she places balls of dough in a tortilla press. 

"We are so coming back here for that," Dean says, and Cas nods, mouth too full to speak.

They linger after their meal, half-watching the novelas playing on a corner-mounted television. A child runs behind the counter, and the tortilla-maker scoops her up in her arms and plants a kiss on each cheek. Everyone who comes in is greeted like an old friend. English, Spanish, and barrio Spanglish intermingle. An old man nursing a Corona walks by their table, claps a hand on Cas's shoulder. 

"That man grows some of the greatest tomatoes you'll ever taste in your life," Cas explains after he leaves. "I used to drive out to his farm in Salinas twice a week. This was probably ten years ago, before the new owners decided to cheap out. We're supposed to be "fine dining", and yet even a place like this gets better produce than us." A wry smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Should we take the rest of this to go? We've got work to do." 

Before they leave, Cas gives the dining room one last sweeping glance, throws a wave to the abuela behind the counter. Even as they're driving away he's making wistful eyes at the rearview mirror.

Dean ends up eating the other half of his burrito at the restaurant supply store, wandering rows of used equipment. Dustmotes swirl above, caught in lines of sunlight from the windows of the warehouse, clinging to his eyelashes and the tufts of Castiel's hair. Clean of sweat and free from the bandanna, his hair looks like it would be soft between Dean's fingers. A thick wave falls down his forehead. Dean chews, swallows, and takes one more bite before he realizes Cas has been asking him to hold one end of the measuring tape for God knows how long now.

It takes hours. Cas opens every cooler, removes every panel, sticks his hands around all of the machinery. Dean doesn't know crap about coolers but Castiel has a critical eye and sure hands. The first warehouse doesn't have what they're looking for, so they hit up another one down the road, then go back to the first, then sit on the bumper of the truck while Cas sends photos of every potential purchase to Nick. 

The stainless steel box fridge for $1200 will fit perfectly inside the walk-in. There's another similarly sized for two hundred dollars less, but it smells like sour milk poured in an empty Doritos bag. The cheapest was a long fluorescent case only one missing light bulb, but it would have to go where some dry storage is already kept. Nick wanted to turn the dead walk-in into a new dry storage unit, but Cas thinks it'll get too humid there. If they just put a fridge in the walk-in they can pretend it still works and it won't take up any extra space. After half an hour of furious texting and one phone call Dean has to walk away from, Cas picks the $1200 one. "I don't care," he says in answer to a question Dean's never asked. "The owners are just going to have to suck it up and reimburse me. This is still nearly four thousand dollars less than it would be to fix the walk-in. If they want some nine hundred dollar piece of shit, they could be out here buying it themselves." 

By the time the guys are loading it on the back of a wooden flatbed Cas is grinning, one arm slung around Dean's shoulders. Sunlight bounces between the stainless steel door and Cas's mirrored aviators, and for a second there Dean's actually gazing at the fridge like it's something beautiful.

The flatbed exceeds the weight limit to drive on the wharf, but Nick shows up to help them load the cooler on a dolly and try to maneuver it inside the restaurant. It takes a lot of grunting, flattened cardboard, Cas nearly shattering his kneecap, and even more arguments about the price before they've got it settled.

"You'll see," Cas tells his brother, flushed with exertion. "If the owners don't pay me back, I'll threaten to quit."

"Yeah. Right. After all these years, they'll sure take you seriously this time."

"I will burn this god damned place to the ground."

"I'd like to see that."

* * *

They're about two hours away from opening when it happens. In all the chaos of removing and tossing stuff out, they're a little lost on what exactly they've got in inventory. Deliveries come in Thursday morning, so they're truly fucked when Kevin notices the diced tomatoes are slimy. "I think taking them out of the fridge, letting them heat up, and then putting them back in was a bad idea?"

"Well, aren't you a bright one," Crowley snipes. "And I suppose you're all out of cream for my alfredo sauce?"

"It's my fault, Crowley," Cas cuts in. "I did throw out all of the cream. I forgot. I think we also need - Hannah? Hows the romaine?" 

"Brown. Slimy."

"Alright. Nobody panic, everything will be fine. I know a guy." Summoning Dean with a jerk of the head, they head out to the truck. It's a twenty minute drive to the north side of the city, but traffic is good. Cas pulls up in the back alley behind some kind of New American fusion joint, but pauses before unlocking the door. "You should wait here," is all he says, and then goes up to knock on the back door. 

Right, there's a hundred things Dean could be doing in the kitchen, but he specifically came here to help Cas load. Maybe Cas has an ex who works here or something. 

Someone opens the door, Cas disappears, and then around twenty minutes pass before Cas comes tearing out, a little too much swing in his steps. "Okay, Dean, come on. Talked to the guys, they'll let us steal some product. Borrow. It's all right. The head chef here is cool. He's a friend. He's... cool...." Cas says before drifting off when he realizes Dean is still sitting in a fucking locked car. "All right. Okay."

His pupils look a little dilated. So this chef really is _cool_ , then. Dean follows Cas inside to a greasy back kitchen, behind a dirty walk-in door, and then freezes.

Alastair looks the same. Thinning blond hair, eyes that rake up and down Dean's body, oily smile. 

Dean wants to run, throw a punch, anything, but the fucker just hands him a case of tomatoes and nods. "Heard about your walk-in troubles," he says, winking. "Well. Anything for you, Castiel." Even the way he says the name is like oil slick on clear Pacific waters. He's restrained, though, only giving Dean a passing glance. 

So they're just going to pretend they don't know each other. Dean can play that. That's good, isn't it? After all, it's been four fucking years and he knows Dean didn't rat on him or anything. Bygones are bygones and all that. 

Fuck, but Dean wants to break every one of his teeth. 

"I really owe you one," Cas says, crate of cream in his arms. 

"You certainly do, Castiel. I'll take it out on your ass later."

"Shut up. Dean, come."

"Dean, is it? Nice to meetcha." He isn't leering, but his smile never fails to make Dean shudder. "New employee, eh? He being a good boy for you?"

"Uh... yes, Dean is an excellent worker. Very good."

"I ain't a dog," Dean mutters, lowering his eyes.

"Feisty one. Just how you like 'em, Castiel."

Cas shoots him a look. "Shut up and carry the romaine. We're in a hurry."

"Bossy, bossy, bossy," Alastair says. "Sure I can't get anything else for you?"

"We're well taken care of here. I'll see you - "

"Next week?"

"I'll call you."

Back in the cab, Cas is still chatty from whatever the hell he got. Dean has a pretty good idea, but he's not going to say it, thanks. "So, Al is cool," Cas repeats. "You know. He's good, he's got... he's cool. If you ever need anything."

"Oh yeah. I got you the first time."

"You can just give him my name. Tell him I sent you. If you're all right with me, he'll be all right with you."

A lighter falls out of Cas's pocket when he makes a U-turn out of the lot. All scratched up at the bottom and stuffed with coke. Just how Alastair always did it. 

Well, Castiel is older and works ninety goddamn hours a week. Who the hell is Dean to judge? He's seen plenty of functioning addicts in his time. Sometimes you just need a bump when your back is killing you and you're choking in the weeds. He'll stick with the prescription stuff, though. No need to mess around with anything harder. Shit, it's not like he had a problem with the drug itself - it was dealing for Alastair that fucked him over.

They're at a red light when Dean notices Cas throwing him odd little glances. 

"You got something on your mind?" 

"Dean... what I said before. I shouldn't have said that."

"Said what? That line about kissing me?"

"Yes. I think that was inappropriate." 

"Whaddya mean?"

The light changes and Cas turns down one of the old cobbled roads that run through downtown, pickup bouncing. "I believe the common saying is... you don't shit where you eat?"

"I thought Sam was like family to you."

"He is."

"Yeah, well, he's my brother. So like it or not, we're family. Besides, I mean. I like the Chowder House. I'm lovin' it, believe me. But it's not my whole life."

"What else do you have?"

Well, there's Sam. He's starting to make friends with Ruby, just because Sam loves her and he's stuck with her. 

Once he had a car. A 1967 Impala, passed down from his father. John's old leather coat on the passenger seat. A sudden memory of dancing flames hits Dean suddenly. He looks at the passing storefronts instead. It was five, six years ago, and he'd taken that coat and a box of cassettes and tossed it all onto a bonfire on the beach because he was drunk as shit and John was dead and Mom had been so long gone he could barely remember her. Not when he was slaving away at the barbecue shack, sixty hours a week of work and another twenty of blowing lines with the crew, sleeping in that filthy apartment and he couldn't even talk to Sam, grief stuffed too far down his throat. 

Then came Alastair, and Dean threw himself straight down into the maw of madness. 

Fuck.

No. That's not a path to go down.

Nothing's going to happen, because it was years ago and they are grownups, damn it. Dean wasn't a rat. The four years he did are proof to that. Alastair's doing his own thing, and haha, isn't it funny, what a coincidence, that two cooks working the Monterey Bay circuit would end up having some kind of social connection. 

This is what he's supposed to do. After you get out of jail free, you still get to pass go again. Get another two hundred dollars. Buckle down and hope you don't draw the wrong card again.

Cas has big hands that cradle translucent bodies of squid. That can fillet a fish in less than twenty seconds. That grip whisks and wrenches with equal power. He's wearing those giant aviators that sit perfectly on his cheekbones and when he looks at Dean he sees his own face reflected, all twisted and distorted. 

Something's gotta give, and it turns out to be Dean, breaking into laughter. "Dude. If you're gonna try to take what you said back, why am I even here with you? Don't pull some professionalism card. 

"This was a date, whether you're gonna say it or not. So maybe you're kinda nervous, but that ain't fazing me. Don't you worry 'bout me. I'm here, and I'm... I'm interested, all right?" Cas's elbow jerks, the gearshift slipping, but that might be a smile. 

So what if Cas isn't quite right? Dean's far from it. His hand has a mind of its own, curling around Cas's knee. When Cas drops one of those giant, scarred hands from the wheel and closes over his own, he knows he's made the right decision. Before they grab the crates out of the bed, Cas puts his hand around Dean's neck and tips his sunglasses to the top of his head. His lips are chapped and his tongue tastes like oysters.

Those fucking hands gripping the oyster shell, the look of pure rapture. Fuck, but Dean loves his hands, loves how they feel around his neck, coming up to his waist as the kiss grows deeper, creeping, sending pure chills of ice down his veins. 

"Let's get back to work," Cas says, but his nose is still pressed in Dean's cheek. Dean is smiling against his mouth, he can't help it. Leaning back, he tosses two fingers up in a mocking salute and then grabs the crate of cream. 

Service flies by. Cas's a little lazy on the expediting, till Hannah takes over. She's throwing suspicious glances, which is dumb, because he and Cas aren't looking too shady. Dean's fine. Maybe he just blushes a little bit when Cas throws him orders. Turns out it's one of the busiest nights they've had since Dean started working here. Not like he noticed. At the end he's kind of half-hoping Cas will drag him back to their house and fuck him silly on that ancient floor-mattress, but Cas ducks out early after only a moment of heated eye contact.

Sam's lips are a little tight when he throws Nick a good-night wave. Well, it's none of Sam's business.

He's a little too excited to go straight to sleep. Once Sam's snoring he jerks off quietly in the bathroom, then throws himself on the couch smiling until his cheeks. Fuck, but Cas is exactly what he needs right now. That controlled power with a lick of madness. That grating growl - yeah, Cas could tell Dean to get on his fucking knees. They'd be free on Cas's big mattress, behind a closed door, or even a shower. A private shower, just the two of them, the only sounds echoing their own. Back inside you couldn't even have a fap in the showers without someone creeping. It kind of fucked with Dean's sense of sexuality. He just needs something to cleanse his system. Hit the restart. The last decent sex he had on the outside was with -

Nope, nope, no. Bad thoughts, Winchester. There's four beers in the fridge and the memory of Cas's lips in his mind. He's good. He's gonna go to sleep and it's all going to be good, and if Cas ever wants him to blow a couple lines, he'll understand when Dean says no. Cas is understanding like that. 

Dreams explode across his subconscious that night, blue eyes and white powder and it's so real, so raw he can taste it. Cocaine-coated claws rake his gums. Raw oysters slip down his throat. Big hands pull him back from the edge of a cypress-crusted cliff, and everywhere the flames leap, singing the edges of every image. 

Just dreams, that all. Just dreams. When he wakes up in the wee hours of the morning he's got white pills to take it all away. Not quite enough. 

"No," Ruby says. "I'm cutting everybody off."

"Oh, come on. Do I need to go get an actual prescription?" 

"Hey. I'm not even letting Nick come in anymore, and he's got a valid prescription. But if he wants to keep getting refills every three days, he's gonna have to make friends with another pharmacist. 

My job is on the line here, all right?" She's tying up her shoes, hair falling in her face. "Fucking lazy ass boss is checking inventory for once."

Great, so now Dean's gonna be late to work because he has to stop and buy two bottles of Excedrin Migraine Extra Strength first. After a moment's consideration he buys a third. Gotta look after the rest of the staff. They'll be fine. It's not like Dean is addicted to the prescription stuff. 

If the day seems a little worse than usual, it's just because they're slammed. If his back hurts, it's just because he didn't sleep well last night. If he cringes when Nick barks an order at him, it's definitely not because he sounds like Alastair for a moment. Because Dean isn't thinking about Alastair. He gestures for Jo to bring him a beer and gulps it down quick. Just to take the edge off. Besides, his tolerance is high enough by now that it won't affect him. Dean is one hundred percent sober, and he doesn't think about Alastair at all.

Yeah. Of course. Don't think of a pink elephant. 

After service he makes out with Cas in the service kitchen, away from any prying eyes. Unlike their gentle first touches it's rough, too fast, the edge of a worktable digging into the small of Dean's back. Cas growls into his mouth, hands possessive and grabbing until Dean starts to think the guy might actually bend him over the table and fuck him right there. There should be a gallon jug of canola oil under the table, it shouldn't smell too weird or anything -

Cas pulls away with a groan, pressing a hand to his head.

"You okay?" Dean asks, panting, leaning forward to try to catch him again.

"Just - my head."

"You want another pill?"

"I think Nick still has some Vicodin. He's being stingy, though. Oh, god." Sinking back on his heels, Cas curls around himself. Unsure of what to do, Dean puts an arm around him, rubs the knots at his shoulders. "Let's get high?"

"Hell yeah," Dean starts, but the bag Cas pulls out of his pocket doesn't have weed in it. "Uh. I'm good on that, actually."

Cas's face falls. The bag of cocaine trembles between his fingers. "I'm sorry... I should've known better, you-"

"No, no, it's cool! You do what you gotta do, man," Dean says, but Cas isn't even looking at him, twisting the bag in his hands. 

"I'm sorry - Dean, I wasn't thinking-"

"Dude. I said it's fine."

"Dean - " 

The jackass actually bolts. Rolling his eyes, Dean follows him into the courtyard. From the service kitchen they can hear the sounds of people laughing and talking over each other. Cas is standing very still before the dumpsters, as if he's about to toss the coke in with the garbage. "The hell are you doing?"

Cas sighs heavily. "I know you've had your issues with this particular drug in the past. I shouldn't lead you down that road again. Unlike me you're still young, Dean. You have your whole life ahead of you. You haven't burnt out yet."

"Are you kidding me?" Whipping his head around, Cas is just a wide set of eyes. Dean keeps prodding. "Dude, you're only what? Thirty?"

"Thirty-six."

"Well, whatever! You're far from middle aged. I've seen guys older than you get out and change their whole life around. Me, I'm over here with an actual criminal record, and you wanna act like you're the old and beaten down one here? I mean, come on. I can handle watching you snort a little if it gets you by. It's not like you're such an asshole when you're high, you just get kind of chatty and smiley."

"Wait, so-"

"Yeah, Cas, I can always tell when you're high."

"I don't always snort it."

"Course not. Gotta rub it on the gums," Dean shrugs. "Best way to do it."

"I'm gonna - I'm fine without it, Dean. It's not a big deal. This isn't an addiction for me. But I'm not going to waste good blow." With that he's resolute again, heading towards the service kitchen.

Well, that ends that makeout session. Dean tries not to be too disappointed. After all, his back and his legs are killing him. He's filthy and stinky and decidedly unsexy. When he makes it to the bar everyone's raising glasses in a toast. Forcing a smile, he grabs a beer. "What're we celebrating?"

"Ding dong, the witch is dead," Crowley says, cheeks red. "My dearest of a mother has _finally_ passed on, leaving me her fortune and the house in Scotland, where I shall shag sheep and handsome stableboys till my liver erupts. After tonight, I will never have to see any of you idiots again."

"A good-bye gift," Cas drawls, dropping the bag of cocaine on the bar. "Sad to see you leave, Crowley."

"Even your perfect arse can't keep me here, darling. Shall we have one last bump together?"

"I'm good."

"I'm leaving tomorrow," Crowley says, opening the bag and passing it around. "You won't get any two weeks notice from me. I suggest you hire quickly. It'll take a long time before you find someone who can replace me."

"Yeah, you're irreplaceable," Nick sighs, swatting him on the head. "Good fucking riddance." Hesitating before dipping into the drugs, some kind of telegraph passes between Sam and Nick, and then he's dropping the bag on the bar counter. "You all have fun with that. I'm fine."

Hannah raises a nonchalant shoulder. "Sure, okay."

"He's the only one with any Vicodin left," Kevin says. "Can I just snort it? Isn't that the classic style?"

"Am I the only sober person here?" Donna wonders aloud. "Shut up. Booze doesn't count. Alright, alright, I'll just try a teensy weensy little bit."

As the party starts, the abstainers move slowly away. Cas mutters something about how he's going to fire anyone who doesn't show up on time tomorrow. It's cold outside for this time of year. The wharf is dark, silent but for the susurration of waves and the odd bark of a seal. Dean shivers, wishing he had something more than his white tee shirt. The switch happens naturally, Dean following Cas and Nick following Sam with little more than a farewell nod.

Cas's hands are cold and hesitant in bed. Dean presses coaxing kisses to the salty skin of his neck. "It's been a while," Cas whispers. 

Arms encircle Dean, drawing him close, but Cas only ducks his head and exhales in the space between their chests. Crow's feet crinkle at the corner of his eyes, and Dean realizes he's laughing. 

"I'm sorry. You're very attractive." 

"Hey, hey. It's ok. You know.... it's kind of been a while for me, too." 

"What about all that soap-dropping action?"

"Hah. Man, you don't even wanna know. I couldn't - I couldn't do that. Not inside. And...." He could spill it out here, in this safe place. In the space between their bodies curved like parentheses. All about Alastair. His addiction. Degradation. The sour-salt taste of Alastair's skin, only sweetened by malt liquor, the blissful high, and hatred at this man who held so much power over him. Twenty-five lighters on his dresser and powdery bills. All of that balled-up shit, rolled around by a Sisyphean dung beetle through the wastelands of his head.

Cas's back is strong beneath his hands. Maybe he could help roll for a minute.

Dean leaves out the names. The part about the Impala. There might be tears, but one of Cas's thumbs comes up to the corner of his eye. The kiss is like a bleach-pen on a stain in those infomercials Dean watches when he can't sleep. Suddenly there's a white spot, and then another, and then he's actually sobbing, laughing, letting Cas pull him closer and closer until there's nothing in between. When he starts breathing again, Cas tells him a story about the photo on the wall. When he was fifteen, and his father had just left, and he'd spent his days on the cliffs. Maybe there was some fatalistic hope of being bashed to death on the rocks, he admits, because that angle really is wild. There's a good reason no one's ever taken a photo of that point from that angle before.

"Wasn't there some lady who died right there? She was taking her wedding photos and a wave swept her off." Dean's mumbling, snot crusting his lip. 

"A good way to go. All life came from the ocean. It seemed fitting that it should end there."

"Dude."

"I was eighteen. It was my edgy phase. Kerouac, existentialism, clove cigarettes, the whole bit."

"Fallen angels, born to lose? We killed God, but he was suicidal anyways?"

"Heh. Yeah. Hannah and I were such little goth kids. I mean, at least she held me back from going full Schopenhauer."

"Don't even get me started on my teenage Bukowski fetish." Dean chuckles, nosing Castiel's chest. "So, you ever take any more pictures?"

"I tried to. No, I did, for a while. But once I got promoted at Chucks, I just didn't have the time anymore. Then Nick came out, Hannah had her whole divorce, I gave them jobs... there wasn't time. There wasn't any purpose in it."

"There's a purpose in that kinda stuff. Self-expression. Doing something you love."

"I used to love cooking, too." Cas sighs, reaches a hand over Dean's head to grab his phone off the window. "Dean, it's three in the morning. Go to sleep."

* * *

Waking up with Cas. Coffee pressed in his hands while he's still trying to rub the grit from his eyes. Wandering the fisherman's wharf in almost a fugue state. Dean doesn't even think twice about pills. The way Cas is acting you'd think nobody, much less Dean, ever cried in his arms, but they pull off at the beach again before heading to work. Cas is the one to hold Dean's hand this time. Service is a little stressful without Crowley, but everyone's grateful to Dean for buying enough Excedrin to give them all liver failure. 

"Oh, look!" Nick exclaims at the appetizer tickets start rolling in. "Guys, I think we've got a reviewer. Sam, why wasn't I warned of this?"

Sam frowns, tying his hair back. Somehow Dean's forgotten to attack his brother with a pair of scissors in a long time. Then again, who knows what kind of mullets the kid was sporting while Dean was inside. Leave it Sam to forget that Supercuts exists. "Dude, we don't have any reviewers."

"No, look, it's just a one-top. Ordering two different appetizers, our best wine, and asking you about specials?"

"If it is a reviewer, then he must not be from around here or from anywhere important. I dunno. Where's my fried mushrooms?" 

Nick's on his tip-toes, peering through the window with Cas at his side. They look like a pair of ground squirrels scouting out the prairie, and Dean doesn't bother to stifle a giggle from his spot at the pasta station. 

"Oh, what?" Cas sounds disappointed. "He wasn't supposed - I told him - 

"You know this guy?"

"It's fine, I guess he's just -"

"Sheesh, Cas. That guy looks pretty busted."

Now that Dean's curiosity has been piqued, he's elbowing Cas to make room. There's only one single-top, and he's sat at a table close to the bar.

Alastair _knows._ Alastair can see them - see _Dean_ , pressed up against Cas hip to shoulder.

When he winks, Dean can taste bile in the back of his throat.

"We should comp his meal," Cas says, tossing a two-fingered salute. "I do owe him, after all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No offense intended towards the writers referenced. But we all know, or were, or maybe even still are those sad edgy teenage kids who read one book and think we've got it all figured out. I like the idea of Cas and Hannah as angsty teen twins.


	5. Chapter 5

There's nowhere to go. Dean looks around wildly, sees a floor drain. That'd be a good place to puke, if things get out of hand. He tries to twist out of the arms grabbing him. Someone's shouting. Castiel.

Gasping, Dean tears himself away from Cas and heads towards a hand sink to dry heave. "M'okay," he says. "I'm good."

The ticket machine is still spitting but everyone's stopped, tongs and spatulas dangling. He just needs a breath of air, so he stumbles out to the courtyard, sticks his hands in his pockets to find a cigarette. Behind him the clatter of the kitchen sounds up again, but -

They're three people down now, because Dean can't pull his shit together. 

Silhouetted against the light of the kitchen, Cas could be a fantasma of sleep paralysis. "Dean? What's going on?"

Dean looks away from him, back to the peeling stickers on the dumpster. In the pale wash of moonlight the clip-art of flattened boxes grows and grows, into something he could crawl in to hide. "It's no big deal, Cas. I'll be back in a sec."

"Answer the question."

"I said, it's no big deal. Get back to work."

"That's my line," Cas says, bone-dry. Footsteps across the courtyard. Dean cringes, braces for impact. 

"Cas, for fuck's sake. This isn't your problem."

"You made it my problem. After what you told me last night?" A hand lands on Dean's shoulder, gripping tight. 

"Jesus - if you don't get off my ass -"

"You'll what? Look at me, Dean." When Dean refuses, he sighs, lifts his hand. "Fine. Don't tell me. But just know that I already know enough to piece it together. Just know that now I'm going to have to go back in and cover your station as well. Just know that right now, everyone is working triple-time to cover both you and me and we're already a man down thanks to Crowley. So Alastair was your old dealer and your ex - Dean, I get it. If my father ever walked in here, I'd spit in his food, but I wouldn't let any of my customers down. Do you want me to spit in Alastair's food?"

"Spit in his food? No, god, that's disgusting." Finally Dean turns around. Arms crossed, Cas is pretty much expressionless, eyes dark and unreadable in the moonlight. "Look, I'll be right there. Just turn around and head back in and I'll be right behind you. I'm sorry, I should've just said something before but I didn't wanna mess anything up for you and figured I'd be okay and -"

"Mess anything up? He's my dealer, Dean, not my friend. I don't need him."

"Great. Fine. Everything is fine. I don't care about Al anymore. It doesn't matter. This never happened. It seriously, seriously doesn't matter."

"It matters," Cas grinds, "because I held you as you wept that night."

"And I'm real fucking sorry about that."

"Don't you dare apologize."

The kiss is hard, painful when their teeth clack. Wincing, Dean pulls back and rubs his jaw. "Can we just get back to work, Cas?"

Back at the expediting station, Cas is subtle. Dips a finger in his mouth, smears it on the burger bun as if he's just adjusting the stack of onions and aioli. He throws Dean a sly little wink as he does it, and Dean nearly deep-fries his face off trying to hide his chuckle. 

Cas does make one last trip to Alastair's house, per Dean's request. Something about knowing exactly where he is makes Dean feel safer. Gives him an edge over the guy. He stays in the car, staring at the junkies hanging around the stoop. There's a rusted Corvette in the driveway like a billboard. As if the pitbull on a long chain, the boards on the front window, and the empty malt liquor bottles on the dead lawn don't scream trap house loud enough. He doesn't relax until Cas comes back out, nearly skipping.

"I just got an eight ball," he says, words running close together. "We can give it to Kevin. Going away present."

"What? Kevin's leaving too?"

"Yeah." Cas throws the truck into gear too fast. "Turns out he does have a brain. Kid was holding out on us all this time. He's got his pick of MIT, Stanford, or Princeton at the end of summer. Can you believe that shit? No wonder he doesn't give a crap about his job. Did you know he's only nineteen? And he's got his whole life ahead of him. Maybe I shouldn't give this to him. He doesn't need it. Yeah, that'd be a bad idea."

"Figured he had to have something going on. That's awesome." Dean watches Cas's hands on the wheel. His knuckles aren't white or anything, at least. Probably no more than a quick bump. "Good for him. So... did Alastair say anything? About me?"

"He said..." Cas screws his eyes tight. Dean has to nudge him when the light changes. "Right. He said he thought he might have remembered you from an old job in San Diego. That's it. And I did tell him I didn't plan on using anymore. So that's taken care of. I don't think you have to worry about him, Dean. He's a scumbag, but he's a lazy one, and he has plenty of other needy addicts. What do you think?"

"I guess it's been a while." Chewing his lip, Dean glances at the rearview, but the house is long gone. "If Alastair doesn't give a shit, then I guess I don't need to?"

"No, Dean. I mean about Kevin's present."

"Oh. That. Well, you wouldn't wanna be a bad influence on the kid."

"Please." Dropping his sunglasses back over his dilated pupils, Cas's grin bares too many teeth. "You should have seen him when he started working for me two years ago."

True to his word, Cas doesn't go back to Alastair. Even if he wanted the drugs he couldn't afford them - the entire kitchen is a morgue the day he finds out that the owners won't reimburse him for the new cooler. Now that Cas is back at work he's all tight focus and red-rimmed eyes, but it was impossible not to hear the whole forty-five minute phone conversation. In a quick gesture of sympathy Nick slips two pills in his hand just before service begins. Sam keeps the waiters on their toes, directs their questions to anybody but the head chef. After service ends and the kitchen is clean Cas just grabs Dean by the wrist. 

"It's my fault," Cas tells him in bed. "That's what I get for giving a shit about this place."

For the rest of the week, Cas doesn't even show up till noon. Dean gives him shoulder rubs in the walk-in and makes out with him in the dry storage, languid slow kisses that have zero place in the bustle of a working kitchen. He starts smoking weed again because Cas shouldn't have to smoke that joint all by himself, lets it soothe the pain in his back and quell any lingering stress about Alastair. He spends nearly every night in Cas's bed, wrapped around him and never minding if they still reek of grease and sweat. Cas sleeps till seven in the morning, and sometimes even Dean makes it there with him.

When they can't sleep, Cas lights a joint and talks. Roughened voice dropping to a whisper, he tells Dean about a sea otter he saw clutching her kit to her chest. About the kelp forests they only see from above, like helicopter shots over the Amazon. About the glowing things at the bottom of the Monterey Canyon, green flashes on the horizon, a child on a beach believing that the other side of the bay was Japan. Dean curls in his arms and lets the words paint soft watercolors inside his eyelids, shivers when Cas's breath ghosts against his ear. Other nights it's him doing the talking, his voice distant as if he's someone else. Someone else tells Cas about catching fireflies. Sammy's first loose tooth. A perfect chicken-fried steak at a diner in Nebraska, and the rumble of an engine soothing him to sleep. It's never the good memories that feel like they belong to him, but when he whispers them into Cas's hair, he's someone else. 

Right up until the alarm goes off. 

Back on the battlefield, Sam keeps distracting him these puppy-dog eyes and chest huffs. Clearly the kid is planning some kind of speech. All the more reason to spend every spare second with Cas. 

Why should he talk to Sam? Sam's front of the house. He works thirty hours a week and makes tips. While Dean was in prison, he was writing essays. Going to lectures. Getting good grades. Sometimes in the middle of the night the depth of the widening gulf between them wakes him. So he holds Cas closer and reminds himself that after four years, people change. Hell, it's been longer than that. This has been happening since Dad died. Since Sam went off to college. Since Sam stopped getting mad at Dad and started planning his escape. Smart kid. They all knew John couldn't be trusted, but while Dean thought he'd done his best Sammy could already see the cracks. Then Dean went ahead and proved him right. Not even his damn car was safe under his care. 

If he had been a smarter or better brother, he could've sent Sam into foster care. Anyone would love him, and Sam could fit in with anybody. He could've had a stable home. Caretakers who had their shit together. 

All his life Dean had done his best to protect Sam, look out for him, support him. Set a good example. 

He's starting to think that the best thing he ever did for Sam was go to prison. Four years with his Dad gone and his brother locked up meant four years without drama. Time for Sam to focus on himself. Somehow balance school, work, and two relationships. Damn, but the kid did good.

* * *

Tourist season doesn't hit nearly as hard as they thought it would. Still, more business is good, and they start opening earlier. More hours means more money means less time to think. Monday is the only danger day but he spends it with Cas. Sometimes Hannah comes to drink beers on the beach with them, but she's usually off with Donna doing something. The margaritas at the family-owned Mexican place really are fantastic. The slow-roasted pork is to die for. Izel is ten years old and brings them sodas with a shy blush on her face as her abuela scolds her to get back to her homework. 

"She's always been shy of me," Cas says one day when they're deep into a plate of enchiladas. "I think she likes you."

"What can I say? I'm irresistable."

"That you are," Cas says, and does that thing where he's squinting but his pupils are dilated and Dean has to control himself, seriously. He opens his mouth to make some dumb quip about resisting and then shuts it. If Cas isn't ready to have sex, then neither is Dean. It's not like he has any doubt about how attractive Cas finds him. They don't even have the energy for something like that ninety percent of the time, and in any case it's somewhat of a relief. There's no pressure with Castiel. 

"Were you gonna say something?" Cas is asking.

"Oh. I was just thinking, you know. This place is nice. Cozy."

"If I owned my own place..." Cas starts. "But I wouldn't. That's too much work." His eyes are still dark and dilated, and then suddenly he breaks into a genuine grin.

Later, on the beach, Cas presses Dean into the sand kisses him hard and senseless, hands drifting and wandering. Just before he hits his navel, he draws back. Meets Dean's eyes.

They're only on their second beers. Still wet from the sea, tucked safe from sunlight in a sort of cave where erosion has eaten away at the red cliffs. Beneath Dean a woven blanket lies rumpled, covered in sand, and seawater and spilled foam. Above, all he can see is Cas. A hand coming up, cradling his jaw. 

One nod is all it takes.

Cas's hands are so gentle, Dean's surprised he comes as fast as he does. Then Cas is digging his hands into his hair and looking at him, still just looking, and Dean sinks to his knees and takes Cas into his mouth because he can do anything. Dean's on top of the fucking world when Cas looks at him like that. When he comes Cas tilts back is head, closes his eyes (finally), and breathes Dean's name so sweetly he has to crawl back up, kiss his neck just in case Cas doesn't want to taste himself, and make him say it again and again till his words dissolve into laughter. 

Afterwards they're biting their lips and acting like teens. It's the first night he's spent away from Cas in weeks, but the languid kiss, the hands digging in his hair, and then that shy smile as he bids Dean goodnight - it's totally worth it. 

Dean glows and glows and doesn't stop until it's seven in the morning again. 

Ruby and Sam look surprised to see him. Nick is there, too, just smirking and tapping his fingers on his cheek. 

"Well, good morning to you too," Dean grunts, pulling himself from the hide-a-bed. Those metal springs are nothing like the soft foam of Castiel's mattress. 

"I just - we didn't hear you come in or anything." Sam shakes himself out of his, turns to grab him coffee. "Thought you'd be over at Castiel's." 

"We don't have to spend every night together."

"Did you - is everything -"

"No, no. If I know my brother, everything is more than all right." Nick is gloating, ignoring the plate of burnt toast Ruby shoves at him. "I mean, it took you guys long enough, but..." Sam's cough is very loud and very pointed. Kid can't be subtle to save his life. "I'm gonna take a shower."

Sam waits until the water is running before he gestures for Dean to sit. 

"I gotta run."

"What, you don't want any coffee? Or breakfast?"

The burnt toast sits in a pile on the table. As if on cue, the toaster pops, and then Sam's handing him a warm Pop-tart tucked in a paper towel, so maybe he can give him a second. "I know what you're about to do," he tells Sam with a mouth full of brown sugar filling. "And I just wanna say-"

"It's not about Cas." 

"Wha?"

"Sorta." Sam flops his fingers in the air, trying to convey the messiness of this situation or whatever. It's not nearly as bad as the last intervention Sam tried to give him. Well, that was a joint intervention for both John and Dean. Kind of a raw deal for Sam. "Look, Nick and I both.... we love you guys. And it's none of our business, you know? But we just want you to be happy. I just. I need to know, Dean."

"Know what?"

"Are you using?"

"Wow. Blunt." 

"Just answer the question, Dean."

"No! No, I'm not using." Brown crumbs fly from Dean's mouth but he doesn't give a shit right now. "And for the record, neither is Cas. Not anymore. Jesus."

"Are you sure about that?" With a heavy sigh, Sam takes a bite of his own Pop Tart and then frowns, like he's too good for fucking toaster pastry. "Dean... I swear to you, I'm not trying to - to tell you what to do or anything. But the last time you swore to me you weren't using anything... you crashed the Impala into a tree."

The plastic chair clatters to the floor when Dean stands up too fast. He slams a fist on the table, making the pastry jump. "Don't you even mention her name, Sam. You think I don't remember that? Do you think I fucking forgot about that? Do you think I did anything else for the past four years - four fucking years, Sam - besides sitting on a cot fucking hating myself for that?"

Sam doesn't even bother to get up and face him head-on. Then again, Sam is taller and jacked like a goddamn kangaroo, so at least his stubbornness is working in Dean's favor for once. 'Of course not. I mean, hating yourself is your number one hobby, right? Second only to escapism. And sorry, but I'm not a fucking kid anymore, and I know that when an ex-addict, who ruined their fucking lives over a drug, starts hanging out with and dating another addict, shit happens."

"Cas isn't an addict, so you can shut up with this... this Psych 101 crap."

"Oh! Alright. See, I've known the guy a lot longer than you, and I know that even if it isn't blow, it's something else. There's ALWAYS something. Go ask Hannah. Ask her how many times she tried to get Cas some kind of help until she gave up."

"If you hate Cas just fucking say it, Sam!"

"I don't hate Cas! Jesus -"

"You know what? You're being a hypocrite right now. Nick does drugs all the fucking time." 

"Yeah, well Nick has a prescription for Vicodin because he's forty years old and has two slipped discs. Maybe he drinks a lot, but he's capable of being sober. He doesn't do it for oblivion, he does it for fun."

"Are you sure about that?"

"We aren't talking about my life here, we're talking about yours. You don't shit about my life, okay?"

"Well, you don't know shit about mine!"

"Because you won't let me!" Sam slaps his palms on the table, huffs. Runs a hand through his stupid, stupid long hair. "Dean, look. I don't know what it's like. I don't know how hard it is for you, or the amount of pain you're in. I'm not trying to be fake with you. But I - I just wish you could talk to me. Let me help. I'm your brother, Dean. Growing up, you were all I ever had! Why don't you think you can talk to me?"

Dean looks at his little brother who really isn't that little anymore.

He looks like he's about to cry.

"You're right, Sam. You don't know what it's like for me. And hopefully, you'll never have to."

"What?"

Already Dean has his back to him, digging around for his pants. Shameful that he's still living out of a duffle bag after all this time. "I'll be out of your hair soon. Which you oughta cut, by the way."

"Dean, I'm not asking you to move out. That is actually the complete opposite of what I'm saying."

"Just say it, Sam. I already know I'm a worthless piece of shit, all right? So go ahead and fucking say it."

"Oh my god-" 

Once Dean shuts the front door behind him, he leans on it for a moment. Touches the knob, taps it with a finger. Then he turns, runs down the stairs, and nearly sprints to the Chowder House. 

It's more practical that he keep his duffel at Cas's house. If Cas notices he doesn't mention it, just picks up Dean's dirty laundry along with his own for the wash. Hannah raises an eyebrow when she walks in on Dean brushing his teeth, but she just leans over and rummages in the mirror cabinet for floss. Nick... isn't around much. Sometimes he spends the night, but with Cas sleeping in he's stepped up to the early-morning fish-shopping plate. None of them are really living in that house. Sometimes Dean just wants to give up the pretense and just sleep in one of the restaurant booths, but there's no showers there and the siblings have a much bigger coffeemaker. 

When he sees the job applications on the kitchen counter, written over in Hannah's cramped all-caps, he doesn't say a word. Not even when Hannah comes in and catches him standing right over it. Sipping his coffee, he's perfectly innocent. 

A bakery. Huh.

Donna's daily staff breakfasts of donuts and bagels take on a new light. He never really noticed, but all of the pink boxes have the same label. 

One Monday he takes Cas for donuts instead of their regular breakfast burritos. The place is instantly charming, tucked away at the far end of the wharf next to a candy shop and a pawn store. The selection of pastries is modest but impressive, and the black coffee smells like chocolate. Dean can't decide between the almond tart or the sausage quiche, so he gets a slice of both. Cas gets a ham and cheese croissant, along with some florentine cookies for later. He could see Donna cooking in the back kitchen here, Hannah serving coffee. They could use an espresso machine here, spice up the coffee selection. Not that Dean is one for the frou-frou coffee, but it'd be good for business.

With Crowley gone, work is getting harder. Kevin is throwing himself into it more than ever before - the kid's leaving in just a few months, anyways. Hannah and Donna are quiet, robotic. Soon they'll have to hire more people, but Cas isn't interested in interviewing and Nick has a tendency to scare people off with his exuberance. 

These days, everyone's just too tired to hang around the bar after service.

Dean's fine, though. Better than fine. Fucking awesome. Being short-staffed just means he gets to work even harder. He sticks to the pasta and chowder stations, furthest from the service window where Sam lurks.

* * *

Sometimes, in the morning, he's the one who turns off the alarm on Castiel's phone. He's leaning across Castiel's sleeping body, fumbling at the touchscreen, when he sees a new text notification. 

Someone named Al.

**don't forget you still owe me :)**

Dean crawls carefully over Castiel, pulls his phone out of his rumpled Dickies. There's a new text from an unknown number. 

All Alastair says is that he misses Dean. 

As if Alastair can fuck with Dean with at all anymore. Dean knows where he _lives._

"These messages were sent at four in the morning," Cas says. "He was probably just drunk. And I do owe him."

"No, see, this is a threat. Shit. He probably saw me in your truck, or someone else did and told him. He's trying to fuck with you, Cas! Why would he send me this?" 

"Dean, it's too early for yelling. Please calm down."

Taking a deep breath. Letting it out. Feeling Cas's hand over his own. Alastair was just crossfaded and sending shitty messages. Seeing Dean again maybe triggered something. 

Nope. This is definitely a threat. A direct threat to Castiel. That smug little smiley face only proves it. 

Dean should've been paying attention. All this time he's been stuck to Cas's side. How many times was a rusted Corvette lurking just beyond the corner, right out of sight? With so many restaurants on the wharf with high turnover rates, there's no telling who might have seen him taking out trash or smoking and then made it all the way back to whatever New American joint Al's working at now. Of course he's got spies, he's a fucking dealer. People are loyal to their dealer.

Not Cas, though. 

Cas wouldn't be dating him out of some scheme with Alastair.

"Dean? Dean!" 

There's a thumb near his eye. Dean looks down, unable to meet Castiel's eyes. "I'm here."

"Dean, it's okay." He's pulling Dean into his arms but Dean can't relax into it as usual. "This isn't something to worry about."

"You don't know that." Clutching Cas's shirt, his knuckles turn white. He pushes back against Cas, stares him down this time. "I need you to take this seriously, Cas. We don't know what he's planning, what he's capable of, but we need to be-"

"He is not going to hurt you," Cas says, lifting his chin in defiance. "But I would like to see him try."

"What about you?"

"What about me? If Alastair thinks he can touch me..." The corners of Castiel's mouth curve up, but his eyes are frozen. "As I said. I would love to see him try. In fact... this could be a good sign, Dean."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a sex scene for once


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put up a wrong version of this and also wanted to wait until it was over oops
> 
> alastair says some shitty stuff here so warning 4 that

"This is not a good idea."

"Of course not; it's an excellent one. Now eat your pate."

Pureed livers and organs and pig fat sounded spooky on the menu, but Dean is glad Cas made him try the fragrant, fatty concoction. He scoops a thick pile on a cracker, tops it with a cornichon and pickled red onions. "I just don't know what the hell this is supposed to accomplish," he says around the bite.

"This? This is just dinner. It's all about the buildup, Dean." Setting his knife on the table, Cas leans in over the table. In the crowded restaurant, no one can hear them, but Cas drops to a whisper anyways. "Antagonizing him is key to getting him under our control. We draw him out. Incite him to do something reckless. That makes him easier to predict."

"See, that's what I don't like. Inciting him."

"Dean, he's not going to hurt us. He's a drug dealer; he's careful. All we're doing is... setting a trap. Presenting ourselves as bait."

"That is the stupidest fucking-"

"Are we ready here?" A smartly dressed waitress is standing over them, pad in hand. 

"Dean will have the bacon bleu bourbon burger-"

"The Alliteration!" she chirps.

Cas's eyebrows jerk, but beneath his dead stare the waitress stands strong. Now, the menu names are actually pretty funny in Dean's opinion, but Cas is set on attacking every last thing about New American dining. "-and I'll have the mussels," Cas finishes.

"Surf and Turf!"

"Actually," Cas taps the menu with a forefinger, "It's not surf and turf. There's no beef. You have to have a land animal to call it surf and turf."

"No, see, the turf is like, grass? Like the arugula and microgreen salad!"

"We'll take two more glasses of wine," Dean cuts in. 

Despite the - okay, maybe pretty tacky - menu, the food is excellent. Might even be worth the price. The burger is perfectly medium-rare, dripping with bleu cheese and crispy candied bacon. Their server's wine recommendations were on point; a smoky shiraz perfectly rounds out the flavors of his burger. Cas grumbles over his mussels enough that Dean can tell they must be perfect. Close enough, at least. 

See, Dean likes to eat. He likes to feed people. That's about it. Before, this kind of fancy shit didn't appeal to him but he's starting to understand what makes people pay fifteen dollars for a burger. Pure ingredients, sourced fresh and local, put together in a way that isn't too innovative as to be annoying. Each ingredient is elevated to something new and special. He hadn't known how expensive geoduck was; it took a while to even feel comfortable with how much of it he'd eaten, but it was his first lesson. Food doesn't always have to be something you shovel down to keep going. 

When he was a hungry kid Spaghettios cold from the can was all he needed. Back inside food was defrosted slop sopped up with Wonder Bread. 

Cas is stabbing his salad with his fork, completely failing to pick up the cloud of microgreens. 

As good as this meal may be the geoducks were better. 

"What's up with the candied bacon?" Dean tries. "It's kinda sweet. Too sweet with the bourbon glaze." He hands his burger across the table, waiting for Cas to look up. With a quirk of his eyebrow, Cas takes a bite.

"I would've used peppered bacon. Give it some bite. You want to try a mussel? I feel like there's almost too much butter involved. A good mussel is buttery enough all on it's own."

Yeah, the mussels are pretty oversaturated in butter. A good mussel should taste like sucking off Poseidon but the oils coating it kind of halt the flavors from exploding across his tongue as they should. Still a damn tasty mussel. One of the best things Dean has ever put in his mouth. But he agrees with Cas, sees the dreamy look in his eyes as Cas starts imagining what he would do differently. 

Of course they order dessert. Donna's pies are amazing, but this one - with a perfectly toasted crumble and sprigs of rosemary that perfectly complements the berries, topped with whipped cream straight from local, grass-fed cows - wow. Maybe just a little too sweet, though. Brown sugar would've really complemented the earthy taste of the ancient grains used in the topping. 

"Send our compliments. To the whole kitchen," Cas says, scribbling on a scrap of napkin. "From Castiel and Dean Winchester. Make sure you give them our names. We're, uh, friends of the owners. Old college buddies. "

"Dude, why didn't you just say Chuck's Chowder House?" Dean whispers once their server is gone.

"We're not exactly... well known," Castiel stammers. "Or respected."

Alastair's place of work is in the historic district. All of the art galleries are closed, but the display lights in the windows still illuminate sculptures of sea otters and ocean waves, paintings of the coastline. They're a little tipsy from dinner, swaying past people with more money in their pockets and better dressed than them. Cas's leather-clad arm is cold against Dean's neck, but he pulls off his scarf and wraps it round, pulls up the collar on Dean's green canvas coat. They're strangers here but Dean is safe in Castiel's hands, so he leans against a streetlamp and pulls Cas over him to kiss his cheeks and nose and then finally his mouth. 

There's a bar tucked in a basement down the street, tucked beneath a Quiznos. "This place is cool," Cas promises, and it is. Even in the swankier neighborhoods there's still a few old holdouts, protests against the swarm of California tourism. A little stinky and sticky, too warm but not too loud. 

The beer is cheap and cold, settling the rich meal in their bellies. Dean props his elbows up on the bar counter, twisting around his stool as Castiel points out historic photos from the days when this bar was a place for cannery workers and longshoremen to cool their heels back in the twenties. Most of the people here are older, nursing beers and playing cards. Over a pool table some old-timers are sharing a cigar and no one seems ready to stop them. In the back, leaning on old church pews against the wall, there's another crew of restaurant workers unmistakeable in their sweaty shirts and black clogs. There's a face he knows.

Dean turns back around, looks at Castiel. Cas follow his eyes, smiles.

"See? He can't touch you, Dean." 

"Did you know he was gonna be here?"

Cas just shrugs. "This place is popular with the locals. Relax, Dean. He just got off work, he's having a beer with his friends. It's fine." 

"What is this, exposure therapy?"

"It works. Look - Dean, look at me." 

Maybe it's the wine, the good food, or the beer in his hand. Maybe it's the way Cas looks at him, all rumpled hair and smiling eyes. A massive scarred hand on Dean's shoulder, holding him tight. Safe. Dean kisses his cheek, just once. Right where the whole world can see.

They make love slowly that night. It's been a few days, but Dean finds he doesn't mind their sporadic sex life. It only makes each second even more precious. Every attention Castiel gives him is a treasure. Every time Cas actually gets roused is special. He's been in relationships where the sex grew stale, was something you just did. Lisa would pull off him to answer her phone. Alastair would push him back when someone knocked on the door. But hey, they had to do it almost every night, because they were horny bastards, right? None of that shit happens with Cas. Dean doesn't feel neglected on the nights Cas doesn't seem to even know what sex is because Cas is still there. Still holds him, lets him know how happy he is with Dean and how good he is. How he belongs here - in Castiel's bed, tucked under his arms, hands in his hair.

_Safe._

Cas isn't going anywhere. The situation with Alastair is still weird, but Castiel's got Dean in his arms and no one else can touch him. Sometimes before service, when Cas is looking stressed, Dean grabs him by the apron and kisses him for luck. Gives him a quick backrub in front of the whole staff of Chuck's Chowder House. Those are the nights when Cas expedites again, strident voice calling each order in a measured pace. Those are the nights when Cas doesn't even duck out to get high during service. 

Dean doesn't even notice it at first, but his insomnia is gone. Poof. Just like that. He's sleeping like a log every night - so deeply that he doesn't even realize it when Cas leaves in the middle of the night until the light of his phone wakes him.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he stares at the text. At the empty space in the bed.

According to Cas, it's an emergency. That's all he needs to know, as ridiculous as it is for Cas to be at the restaurant at this hour. Could be he forgot something when they were closing up, Dean tells himself. It doesn't matter. Throwing on a hoodie from the floor, he stumbles into some sweatpants, finds his shoes, and jogs the whole half-mile to the wharf. 

When he sees Cas, straight-backed in front of the restaurant, he quells the rising thing in his gut. Focuses on what he knows and trusts. 

"Cas?"

"Hello, Dean." Cas speaks without turning, feet locked in a shooting stance. He's wearing a long, black leather coat, wrapped tight and danging past his knees. Some kind of ridiculous nineties action movie shit, but the sharp edges of the shoulders suit him. Dean walks around him as if he's a statue, sees both hands stuffed in bulging pockets.

"Uh... Cas?"

"Everything's fine, Dean. Just wait."

"Cas? Cas, look at me. What the hell is going on?"

Blinking, Cas gives him a brief glance, then turns his focus back to the restaurant. "We're waiting."

"For what?"

An approaching engine brings a soft smile to Cas's face. Dean turns to see a rusted Corvette pulling up to the wharf.

Alastair parks at a jagged angle and swaggers over, dirty in an open hoodie and sweatpants. "Fuck is this, Cas? Why the hell couldn't you just come on to my place?" He gives Dean a glance over. "You kidding me. I don't know what game you playing, but if you don't have-"

Turning to face him, Cas pulls a matchbox out of one pocket and tosses it. Alastair gasps, catches it. As he pulls it open his brows furrow, and then he glares up at Cas. "What - did you mix up your boxes, honey? There should be money in here."

"Do you see this window?" Cas nods to a darkened window of the restaurant. "In a moment, I'm going to open it. And you're going to throw the match inside."

Alastair's face must match Dean's. Cas grins at them both, clamps a hand to Dean's shoulder. "See, before we closed, an... accident happened. Some of that equipment is so old. Seems we had a little gas leak. Now, you're going to throw in the match, and let this place burn. Do I make myself clear?"

"Are you fucking insane?" Alastair stalks around them, tries to look in the window. 

"No, but you are if you can't see I'm giving you a fair choice here."

"Cas, what the hell?" Dean cuts in, trying to get a read on Castiel. Is he fucking high? But Cas keeps going.

"See, you're either going away for this, or for drug trafficking and tax evasion. I'm sure I can recall a few other things. I've spent a lot of time in your house, Alastair, and I've seen some shit. So if you don't do this and I have to go rat you out, you'll get what, twenty years? Thirty? If anything, I'm helping you here. Simple arson, no one gets hurt. You're looking at six to ten years, maybe a big fine. But you can afford that, can't you? So that's not so bad. But either route you take, you're going to prison."

"Or," Alastair says. "I leave, and I tell the police about how some fucking maniac tried to coerce me to burn down a restaurant."

"Oh. You won't be going anywhere."

The safety clicks off before Dean even realizes Cas had a gun in the other pocket. Pointed straight at Alastair. Numb, he lets Castiel grab his elbow, take a few steps back. "Castiel, where the hell did you get-"

"Doesn't matter. Light the match, Alastair."

"You're insane," Alastair spits. 

"I said, light the fucking match."

"Cas, you can't do this-" Dean starts.

"Of course I can't. I've worked here for fifteen years. I love Chucks Chowder House." In the dark, Dean can't see his face. "I would never burn this place down. But he will. It's a great story, isn't it? Jealous ex-lover seeks revenge?"

Alastair is shaking. "You don't have the balls to shoot me," he says.

"Do you really want to take that chance?" 

"Hope you know you're shacking up with a madman, Dean."

"Any worse than you? Let me be perfectly clear, Alastair. You're looking at thirty years or ten. Either way, your ass is getting put away." Castiel's gloved hand points the gun down. Straight at Alastair's foot. "You know, Dean, I think he was carrying this gun, just in case. But he made a mistake. Shot himself in the foot. High on adrenalin and his own supply, accidents were bound to happen."

"Jesus fucking Christ! Cas, just hold on a second!"

But Cas is a stone, locked into his madness. "Light. The. Goddamn. Match."

As the situation spirals out, Cas is standing like the goddamn eye of the storm. This is bad, this is so bad. Either the restaurant will explode or Cas will fire the gun and someone's going to call the cops. They'll arrest not just Cas, but Alastair and Dean as well. The three of them in the same prison. One of them will kill the other. Dean's stomach twists but he forces the bile back down, forces his hands to stay still. The sound of his heart pounding is echoing. That'll be what gives them away: Dean's exploding heart is gonna wake the neighbors. 

Focus. Steady those hands.

Gain control of situation. 

He can do that.

"Cas, come on, man, please." Dean's knees hit the deck. Beneath his fingers Castiel's pulse runs too fast, blood too hot. He slides down from the wrist to the palm, just saying Castiel's name. 

Something is shaking. Cas is shaking. He makes an aborted move as if to throw Dean off. "He hurt you, Dean." He's trying to use his words as a knife, but the blade trembles. It's time to shut up but Dean can't stop the small noises from his throat, as if he's soothing a skittish horse. 

Then Alastair drags them back, draws Cas back up with each dripping syllable. "Sweet. Real sweet. What's it been, a month or two? Still in the honeymoon phase, but, ohhh, he's the one, isn't he, Dean? What's he giving you, huh? He got a dick big enough for you?"

"You shut the fuck up," Dean growls. 

"You said you would call me when you got out. Lying little whore - you used to say you loved me. Bet you didn't know that, did you, Castiel? All that bitch cared about was crack and cock and oh, he was thirsty for it. So desperate he'd say anything, just to get more, more, more."

"I was addicted! Because of you!"

"You were addicted because of yourself, Dean. Holes in your head that you had to stuff with dick and drugs. Maybe Daddy touched you in a bad place, maybe you didn't get hugs enough, maybe the other kids made fun of you on the playground - you think you're the first addict I ever met?"

"I was eighteen when I met you, you son of a bitch. I was a kid! And you wrapped me around your little finger, played me like a god damn fiddle. I didn't even rat you out. They wanted me to name my supplier and I didn't. For you. And I spent four fucking years - all of it, for you!" Dropping Cas's hand, Dean stalks towards Alastair. "At least I had time inside. To see you for what you truly were. Just some pathetic bastard who liked manipulating kids."

In the dull white light of the streetlight, he can see stains on Alastair's white tank. Brown drips like spilled beer. He's older now, chest narrow and caving. Bony arms ticked with track marks. Above the dark circles, his eyes are pale and watery. Then Alastair bends over and starts coughing. Long, hacking coughs, rattling his body. He spits, tries to straighten only to be racked with another coughing fit. 

Just some pathetic bastard.

Dean looks back at Castiel. Wild eyes, but a steady hand. "Cas, put the gun down. This guy isn't worth it."

"I don't like the way he talks about you. I don't like the way he looks. And I don't like him."

"You're not gonna kill him, are you? You wanna risk that?"

"I might have to if he doesn't do this one last thing. He owes you this much. I was hoping I wouldn't have to resort to this, but-" Cas shrugs - "he wouldn't do what he was supposed to do.

"What, burning down the restaurant? How is that solving anything?"

"It's about freedom." The gun doesn't waver. "When you told me about your - past relationship, you said all you wanted was to be free. This is me setting you free. Setting _us_ free. Alastair goes to jail, the shithouse goes down. Win-win situation."

"No. Cas. Someone's going to get arrested tonight if you don't stop this."

"It won't be you. You'll be safe, Dean." But the gun is wavering. Cas's shoulder starts to droop.

"I'm not watching you go to prison," Dean says, and reaches for his hand.

"Oh, it's true love all right," Alastair sneers, and they both snap up their heads to glare at him. Cas steadies the gun.

"CASTIEL!" 

Alastair is looking over their shoulders towards the sound of pounding feet on the deck. Twisting, Dean sees Nick sprinting down the street, nearly stumbling over the cobblestones that mark the road to the wharf. He's barefoot, shirtless, raw screams bouncing down the wharf. Nick nearly falls over when he stops two feet from his brother, puffing and hissing. "Cas, you need to calm down right the fuck now."

"Stand back, Nick."

"NO. No. Give me back my gun."

"This isn't your gun."

"Legally, no. So if you don't give me it back, we both get fucked. All right? You're not gonna do that do me, are you? You're not gonna make Dean watch us both get hauled away, huh?"

"I - I didn't think-" Cas stares at his feet. The gun follows his gaze, and Dean lets out a breath.

"You're god damn right you didn't think," Nick says. "What the fuck? Were you going to kill this guy or what - oh, hey, Al."

"Lunatics. Every last one of you," Alastair says. He's crossing his arms around his chest, trying to puff himself up on his own delusion. "Screw you guys. Man, screw this whole scene. I'm going back East where none of you sick bastards will find me again. Sorry, babe," he adds to Dean, "but you made your bed."

"Yeah, whatever. Go back to fucking Philly," Dean snarls. Beneath his hand Cas's brow is sweaty.

"Oh, I will. And you know what? I'll even do you a favor. So don't you come after me."

The match strikes, a sudden starburst of light illuminating Alastair's grinning, yellowed teeth. 

As it sails through the window, Cas clutches Dean's hand, looks at him wide-eyed but smiling.

Alastair's already walking towards the Corvette.

"What? Cas - why do I smell-" Nick starts, but it's all he gets out before the boom.

Cas yanks his coat over both him and Dean instantly as the blast rocks them, forcing them down. Glass windows shatter and burst, raining down on the leather. Thick tongues of flame leap out from the windows, swallowing up sunbleached wood. Peeking out from under the edge, Cas's grin grows wider and wider until he's laughing, shaking with the effort. Dean follows his gaze to watch the fire leaping into the sky, the words Chuck's Chowder House already gone to char as the restaurant sign falls to the deck.

The wooden deck. That they're standing on right now.

Dean yanks Cas out of his laughter, Nick out of his shock. "We gotta run. Now." 

They have to carry Cas because he can barely breathe through his giggle fit. Sirens sound through the town, growing closer and closer. Damn, but the neighborhood watch committee really is keeping an eye on things here. Someone hollers, and Dean gasps to see Ruby's Jeep pulling up to the curb. At the wheel Sam is a mess of hair, but he's leaning over and throwing open the door. 

"Just in time," Nick breathes.

"Dude, I saw the flames like, right after I got your text. No, no, I don't wanna know; just get in." 

Firelight dances through the rearview window as they drive away. Cas is sprawled over Dean in the back. Finally he's stopped laughing, but in the absence of the mania he's withdrawn. Dean strokes the stubble on his jaw, feels Cas's breath start to even out. 

"Getaway driver, huh Sammy?" he says, weak over the ache in his throat. "This what they teach you in school?"

Sam just shakes his head. "You know, I was thinking of quitting that place soon. Pick up a few more classes." 

"So..."

"Dean. Shut up. I told you, you're still my brother."

"Sam..."

"Dude, I am trying to drive."

It's unspoken that Nick takes Cas back to their house, and Dean goes with Sam. There's no way Dean can go back there or even make it up the stairs, but Sam just nods like he's expected. He's busy on his phone, and then Dean realizes that despite the entire kitchen staff on their way out already, there's still six servers, two dishwashers, and not to mention Jo and Charlie who are all out of jobs now. 

Shit. He almost forgot about them. They stopped hanging around the back-of-house crew... some time ago. Dean never even realized. 

It's possible that they haven't been the best people to hang around with. 

Right, Dean's out a job as well. He missed that part. When he closes his eyes on the hide-a-bed, all he sees is that explosion of light against the night sky. If he got up and opened the curtains he might be able to see it, but Dean has a feeling he'll be witnessing that image for a long time.

"Fire seems to be down. Looks like our tax dollars really are at work." Sam says from the window. Opening his eyes, Dean sees Sam standing with the curtain string in his hands. Half a smile on his face. "Funny thing is - the owners are the real winners here. I bet they're just gonna cash in on the insurance money and skip town. Honestly, I would've thought it'd be them to burn it down."

"Good for them," Dean mutters, rolling over on the bed. 

"Nick and I had our concerns, but. Wow. We didn't even imagine something like this." Shaking his head, Sam makes his way to the bed and folds up his long legs. "Man. You guys are wild."

"What were you imagining?"

"I don't know. Some kind of drug freakout. We'd have to bail you guys out of jail and drag you to rehab or something." 

"Sorry to let you down."

"Dean," Sam says. God dammit, he's doing the earnest face. Puppy dog eyes, like he's ten years old begging for another popsicle again. "Do you at least... understand my concerns now?"

Thing about those puppy dog eyes is that they always, always worked on Dean. "I guess. I get it. But," he adds, wagging a forefinger, "don't think this is gonna scare me off Cas or anything."

"Of course not, Dean. He's family, too. After all, a bit of... mental illness or whatever doesn't mean you don't deserve to be loved."

"Hell fucking no," Dean says, maybe a little too fiercely. "Come on, Sam. Look at me. Who the hell am I to judge?" Dean digs his hands in the blanket, wishing Castiel was there, but it's okay. Right now Cas is having some kind of similar talk with his own brother. Hannah might be there, too. Aren't they lucky, to have families that care about them.

He gives them two hours before he texts Castiel. A text won't do, though, so he sneaks out to the apartment balcony to make a call. Castiel answers in hushed tones from his own whitewashed porch. Unable to sleep, same as Dean. By the time they've said what needs to be said (with a few silences, and a few tangents), the sun is rising.

* * *

In a dirty kitchen full of half-assed repairs on ancient equipment, something was bound to happen. The newspapers don't sound too sad about it. Cas frames the article anyways. Chuck's Chowder House stands a twisted ruin for two weeks before the city tears the whole thing down. 

Perhaps it was arson. There's questions, half-assed interrogations with every previous staff member. The prime suspect is a jealous ex-lover of one of the cooks, who suspiciously bought a plane ticket to New Jersey the night of the fire. A few drugged-out witnesses report him tearing through the house, throwing stuff in a duffel, and then ripping out right after the fire started. Yes, he was unstable, a fan and supplier of crack cocaine. The pieces come together easily, but no one can find the guy. By some twisted miracle, Cas's plot actually worked. They're free.

Just unemployed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Some time later.**

* * *

"You gonna be all right, Cas?" Sam winces away from Dean hollering straight into the receiver. They must be shouting from opposite ends of the stand, because he can even hear Castiel reassuring Dean that's he fine. With a fresh seafood stand, they don't have much to do beyond serving customers and shucking oysters to order once they're open for business, but Dean's a little overprotective. Not just of Cas, but of the business they've built together, of their sun-bleached shack on the edge of the wharf. "Okay," Dean says, voice lowered. "It's just - he's on this new med and it could make him drowsy? I mean, it hasn't made him drowsy yet. I dunno. We just closed anyways. I'll be there in a few."

Dean is trying to hide how stoked he is that Nick is moving in with Sam. With Hannah living with Donna now, Cas and Dean are finally going to have the house to themselves. Already Dean's been fixing up the deck and building garden beds to make Castiel's herbaceous dreams a reality. That was one of the triggering factors. Sam is just happy that Dean has a home. It's giving him the warm fuzzy feelings. Got him thinking about what would constitute his own sense of home. 

Nick's back decided to take a shit all over their plans to move the bed-frame into the apartment. He's groaning even as he packs a bowl. Pure CBD, no THC - all of the painkilling effects and none of the high. Well, a bit of a body high, but still. Nick had no plans to quit when he decided to 'support' Dean and Cas's decisions, but somehow the guy just decided being high wasn't as fun anymore. After a long life of hedonism it was time to settle down, he'd said, and Sam had wanted to punch him for pulling that old-man shit. 

"Dean's gonna be here in a few," Sam tells him.

"I'm sorry, Sam."

"Don't worry about it." Sam falls down on the couch beside him, rubs the back of his neck. "Ruby's gonna be home in a few. You guys should go get some dinner for all of us."

"Why? Castiel can just bring home whatever he's got leftover. And I'm sure Hannah and Donna have some bread or whatever. Actually, I should just tell Ruby to pick up some vino blanco on her way home. Let's make it a housewarming party."

"I dunno. We eat too much seafood. Too much gluten. And really? Wine?"

"They're in NA, not AA. Besides, one bottle between seven people? That's good. That's social celebration levels. I bet they won't even drink any. But this is a special day, after all. It's the anniversary."

"Of what?"

Nick cocks his head to the side. "....Me moving in, for starters."

"Oh yeah. I guess I forgot about that."

There's a mattress halfway up the stairs, the pieces of the bedframe scattered around the apartment, boxes of Nick's kitchen supplies crowing the counters, and already a stack of books on the coffee table. As if Sam could ever forget Nick was moving in.

Dean brings the smell of oysters with him. As they heft the mattress up the stairs he's practically bouncing on his heels, buzzing with news about the oyster bar. They've put in an application for a liquor license - just to crack beers and ciders for their customers. Maybe then they could stay open past four. Not that they're trying to compete with real bars or full service restaurants but they'd get more customers to watch the sunset on the wharf with a fresh-shucked oyster if they could have a cold drink with it. After all, it may just be a small service counter, but they've got a great view. Cas found a guy who harvests wild miner's lettuce and thinks it would make a nice salad with some ice plant. Last week Dean saw a used deep-fryer for cheap at one of the equipment supply warehouses - maybe they could start doing french fries, or fry up the raw-milk cheese curds from some farm they visited up in Humboldt County. "I thought about doing oyster po'boys," Dean says, panting as they settle the mattress into the newly-constructed bed frame, "but Cas says that's too Deep South for us."

"He doesn't know what he's talking about." Sam gives the mattress one last pat, hops on up and considers the new size. Ruby will sleep on the far edge by the window, so she can get a breeze. Nick will be on the edge, as his job as the newest sous chef of some New American place in the historic district wakes him early and keeps him up late. Right in the middle goes Sam. Perfect. 

"Cas doesn't go for that fusion New American shit," Dean says, flopping back on the bed. "We're keeping it local, wild, and as raw as possible."

"It's a fucking deep-fried oyster on a sandwich, it's not some 'fusion New American shit'," Sam snorts. 

"Well, yeah, but then we'd have to start getting bread, and probably have to cut some deal with Sysco for dry goods. I'm not ordering shit from the same place I get my cleaning supplies. I dunno. We're not trying to get too wild here."

"Just get bread from Hannah and Donna. They're pricey, but they'll cut you a good deal."

"Nah," Dean sighs. "Like I said. Not too wild. The owners give us enough leniency as it it. 'Sides, we eat oyster po'boys all the fucking time. And I make a damn good remoulade." 

"Speaking of which..."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Let me guess. You only want me around for the food."

"Nick maaay have decided to throw a party."

"Jesus." Wriggling around on the bed, Dean digs his phone out of his pocket to send a text to Cas. 

As soon as she walks in the door Hannah's already organizing Nick's kitchen supplies. Donna's got a bag of two-day old mini baguettes. Ruby opens the wine as soon as she gets home, toasting the girls. Dean's too busy with the remoulade to have a glass, and no one presses him. By the time Cas shows up with an ice chest of few oysters he won't be able to serve tomorrow, there's a batter all ready for him

"Oyster sandwiches? Again?" 

"Po boys," Dean corrects. "Come 'ere, babe. Try some of this remoulade. I made it extra spicy." 

Cas licks the sauce off Dean's finger like an obedient dog. Sam kind of winces, but he's used to their shameless ways by now. By the time he's biting down through crusty bread and creamy fried oyster, Dean is halfway on Castiel's lap where they're curled on the couch with their paper plates. The assholes are all watching Kitchen Nightmares and yelling at the cooks. Sam and Ruby are the only ones eating like civilized human beings at the table. The bottle of wine is between them, still half-full. 

"Oh, shit," Dean says suddenly. "We gotta jam."

"Right," Cas says, righting himself on the couch. 

Nick's already putting on his coat. "You guys got a meeting?" Ruby asks.

Nodding, Cas ducks his head and looks to the side. "Yeah. We gotta be at St. Anthony in half an hour. It's not one of those religious groups," he rushes. "It's just that they let us use the space for free." 

"Cool," Ruby says. "We'll be ready in a few. Hannah, Donna, you guys wanna come too?"

For once in their lives Dean, Cas, and Nick are speechless.

"Yeah," Sam grins. "I dunno why we haven't gone before. I mean, it's for everybody, right?"

"Everyone whose life has been affected by drug abuse is welcome," Cas says as if he's reciting from the pamphlet. 

"Yeah," Dean says, swallowing hard. "We'd. Uh. We'd love to have you guys come." 

In the small gymnasium they all sit on folding chairs. A girl is up front at the orchestra stand, introducing herself and telling her story. Sam looks to his left, sees his partners paying rapt attention. On his right, Hannah is reaching forward to give Cas a quick squeeze on the shoulder. Turning his head, Cas flashes a smile back at his sister, then resumes leaning against Dean. 

Their hands are intertwined, dangling between the seats.

Suddenly, Sam realizes what Nick meant by calling today an anniversary.

One year ago, Chuck's Chowder House burned down.

One year ago, Cas made a choice. Maybe Dean helped him out a bit. Maybe it was a mutual realization they could only reach when the world was literally going down in the flames around them, but. Here they are. Dean gives Cas an encouraging nod. With a final look back at his family Cas stands, brushing off his thighs in a nervous gesture. With every eye on him, Cas walks to the front of the room and takes his coin. Dean won't get his till the end. Alphabetical order and all.

It's only a year, and they've got a lot more to go. But for now, they're golden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the end
> 
> Was that Hannah/Donna? Sure y not
> 
> if you made it this far, i'd love to hear your thoughts. thank you. i'm also on [tumblr](http://spoopernaptime.tumblr.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh look it's a little coda i never posted, hmm. I'll post it now.
> 
> Cas turns forty.

The oyster bar is closed today. Mondays in the off-season are never busy, and when Dean casually let it slip to the owners that Cas was turning forty they'd insisted on it. To Lori and Kathleen, Dean and Cas are still kids, young and in love without the secrecy they had to live with. It's a good day to be closed, not too windy yet, and just enough sun to warm up the Bud Light in his hands.

The Bud Light was kind of a dumb joke. A mid-life crisis. Their first alcoholic beverage in three years, and it's mostly water. Dean takes a sip and grimaces - it's flat now, sandy at the lip.

Cas is down by the water, lifting strands of kelp in his hands. His jeans are rolled up around his ankles, and the waves lick at his bare toes. He's picking leaves of kelp off, tasting them. He keeps talking about a serving a kelp salad at the oyster bar. The red kelp is the best, but Dean isn't quite sure if they need some kind of permit or something to serve wild food straight off the beach.

Cas chews on the kelp thoughtfully. The sleeves of his hoodie are damp with seawater. When he trudges back to Dean, there's another leaf in his hands.

"I can't eat that straight from the water like you," Dean tells him. "It's too salty."

"It's best like this. Tastes like the ocean."

"Like saltwater."

"Can you shuck another oyster for me?"

One time they tried and failed to work out the math, but Cas probably shucks at least twenty percent more than Dean does in a single day. He'll always be faster, but the tendons of his hands get sore sometimes. Someday he'll get carpal tunnel or arthritis, and Dean will finally beat him. With a grateful sigh Cas accepts his oyster, sucking it down immediately, before reaching for the beer.

"Careful," Dean says. "Don't get too crazy."

"Oh, no, Dean, I'm wasted." Cas falls back on the blanket, grinning. "Come on, man. Let's go score some rocks."

"How much you need?" Dean digs in his pocket. "I got you covered, baby." He lifts some sand in his palm, pinching it up with his other hand and letting it drift with the breeze.

They can joke about it. It's not a threat anymore. As the sun peeks out from the clouds Cas pulls his sunglasses out of his tangled hair, wipes the lenses on the blanket. When he sits up Dean slips an arm around him, pulling him closer. Cas turns his head, kissing his cheek and smiling.

"Hey," says Dean. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks." Cas puts on his sunglasses, takes another sip of the flat beer and smacks his lips. "Ew. Why'd we get that?"

"Because you're over the hill and we're out of control?"

Cas laughs, shakes his head. "You know where I was on my thirtieth birthday?"

"Not with me."

"I was snorting coke in the dry storage at the fucking Chowder House. Pretty sure I was doing the same thing on my twentieth. Probably straight off the bar, though. That was back before Chuck sold the place. Jesus." Chuckling, Cas drops his head against Dean's shoulder for a moment. "And if you'd asked me then where I'd be at forty? Still doing the same shit."

Dean smiles down at him, brushing sand out of his dark hair. "Now look at you. Already drunk off half a Bud Light."

"You know, I'm - " Cas starts, then stops himself. Dean already knows what he's about to say. They rarely speak of the Chowder House anymore. Sure, Cas technically didn't commit arson, but... yeah.

"I'm glad that place is gone, too," Dean says.

The tide is starting to come in, the water creeping further and further up the beach. As the sun lowers in the sky the temperature starts to drop. Cas pulls up his hood. It makes him look younger, but Dean doesn't mention it.

Forty isn't weird or anything.

Time moves forward, as it does.

Dean's almost thirty. If you'd asked him where he'd be by now ten years ago, he probably wouldn't even have an answer. Shit, he never even imagined making it this far. He kisses Cas's neck, tastes the salt on his skin.

"You still down to go to Hannah's?" Cas asks him.

"Yeah, sure. It's her birthday too."

"We don't have to stay long."

"Donna made you a birthday cake," Dean reminds him. "We're gonna have fun. You and Hannah can angst about being middle-aged together."

"I'm not angsting," Cas says. "It's good to be here."

"Good."

Above them, the sky is just starting to turn red. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it's kind of weird to be posting a coda so long after i wrote this but idk i hoped y'all liked this gross story about addiction and the happy ending about reaching forty.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are well appreciated :)  
> I'll probably update this weekly idk yet


End file.
